


It looked like hope

by Familiae



Series: It's just a matter of falling apart [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-08-11 14:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 29,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae
Summary: He should have known better than to fall in love.





	1. City lights

Car horns blaring, the tromping of footsteps on pavement, the cacophony of voices, rising and falling, the sweat of bodies, mingling with a whore’s spicy perfume. The taste of exhaust fumes on lips, the feel of an arm, a jacket, hair, on the back of one’s hand, touching, brushing against each other, feeling the muscles ripple underneath, and finally shy away at the contact, however fleeting. A woman tilted her head in a nod, a sly smile on her ruby red lips, hand on her hip, at a man that suddenly stopped, stared, taken at once, he stepped forward. A child, tears streaming down his cheeks, opened his mouth to let out a single desperate cry that was swallowed up by the crowd. Someone yelled at their phone in a futile attempt to be heard over the sound of the already loud voices. A young man with hair to his waist hesitated before looking away from the sights—a question throbbing in his mind.

_This must be the city_. Wonderful and strange and merciless. A stranger in the street that would smile seductively, showing just enough—_just enough_—so that one would follow mindlessly behind. Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, and then she would turn around and leave you speechless in the middle of the street, waiting for the oncoming traffic to catch up.

And it was, yet it was here a certain young man suddenly found his peace. Ignoring the noise, the touches, the looks, the smells—his lips parted in a smile, brushing raven black bangs with a smile. The answer to his question suddenly clear. The reason? _There_.

Another young man, with a look about him, like a solemn statue carved not from stone, but from flesh, for he was very much alive—joints and bone shaped by some demented architecture’s firm hand. One had seen the other as the subject crossed the street, hands shoved in pockets, head down. Yet still, there was something, and the subject was followed. At first it hadn’t been obvious—the way he carried himself, dejected almost, but there was a glimmer in his eyes, a secret resting there, and once the right person brushed close, it would awaken. The traces of a smile would tug at his lips; he would brush his hair from his face to reveal deep brown eyes.

It was then, at that precise moment that the smile had come unbidden his lips, and his hazel eyes would sparkle. He was filled with both a yearning and a satisfaction then, and the feelings had roiled in his stomach for what felt like hours. Should he give voice to these yearnings? But then, it would be there, out for the world to judge—for that ugly whore of a city to see.

But those eyes. Those eyes. How he wanted to have them stare only at him—to see that glimmer that they spared everyone else—but pointed at him. Only for him. He wanted to melt into a sea of those eyes.

Anxious, he had approached the other as he sat—carrying that dejected look about him again. But it was as he drew closer that he noticed the details—the way the clothes fit so snugly and perfectly, the way he hung there, like a perfect stranger anyone would want—breaths, sweat, skin—touching. Exposed, yet not. Temptation, delicious and raw.

The nerves ate at his insides again, and he stood there, stupidly, without saying a word. The eyes rose to meet his, and in that moment, he knew with an unfailing certainty that he would not let this chance go. That he would have him, right there and then if he must.

Those eyes looked aloof and distant now though, the glimmer wasn’t there, and the voice was sharp when he spoke: “Well?”

Lips tugged upwards in a smile, a hand rose to brush away those raven black bangs, and the nerves seemed to ease up. Somehow, the sound of that voice—it helped. ”I think…” the smile turns into a grin, “I think we should do something.”

_“No.”_  
“Coffee? Dinner? Anything? I know a place just over—”  
“No.”  
“Please? Just a few minutes—”  
“Do you even know what you’re asking for?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Don’t like it?”

He looked up from the cup clutched in his hands, eyes seeming far away, not really there, not really listening—only responding to the sound of my voice.

“The chocolate?” I prompted, eyes flicked back to the cup, watching the steam rise from it, then back to his face.

He grunted, a noncommittal sound that could have been anywhere from agreement, to confusion, to the mating call of a very disgruntled caveman. Regardless of its meaning, Markus seemed to decide that my answer was given as simple as lifting the cup to his lips, taking a sip from the steaming chocolate, and then returning to his previous position—with the cup clutched in his hands.

Oh, OK. Brilliant. This was quality bonding time.

I shifted in my seat, took a sip from my own cup and watched him as his eyes moved from the cup to the window and fixed at a point beyond it. I would have bothered looking—I _was _curious—but from the look on his face, he was probably looking at nothing.

“What’re you thinking about?”

His eyes flicked towards mine once more, and he almost seemed to frown, the corners of his mouth tightening before it left, he shrugged. At least this time he was still looking at me. I thought he wouldn’t say anything, but he graced me with a few choice words: “Nothing, I guess.”

Right. Even a blind man could tell it wasn’t “nothing,” but I kept quiet, stared down at my own cup, watched the spirals of smoke swirl and disappear. Like that I stayed, and from the corner of my eye I saw Markus lift the cup to his lips once or twice, with the delicacy that hinted at a child being forced to eat all his dinner—_Yes, even the beans, Johnny._

_Oh, alright, mom._

So reasonably, I was startled when Markus suddenly stood from the table, the cup presumably abandoned, and his gaze changing from distant to determined, something in the set of his mouth and his shoulders. “Are we going to go then?”

Stupidly, I felt a bit offended—the chocolate couldn’t be _that_ bad, but a second careful glance showed no evidence of remains of the liquid inside the cup. Could it be that he had swallowed the whole thing—steaming as it was—in just a few gulps? My own drink—coffee—was only halfway done.

“Or not…?” a note of impatience now.

And now I could feel the jittery nerves rising in my stomach again. _Again_, we would go again, and I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my lips, and suddenly the drinks seemed like a stupid idea, a stupid thing to worry about, but at least Markus was here. Impatient, but not as snappy as he had been last time, and he was looking at me with those brown eyes, and he was—

Not going to wait until I regained my composure.

Move, Jo, move.

Markus must be thinking I’m mentally addled—staring up at him, smiling like an idiot. Jesus. Move, Jo. One limb at a time, ease away from the table, stand from the chair, now that’s a good lad, forget about the coffee, someone else will throw it out, it’s not like it cost that much anyway.

“Sure,” I tried to make my tone bright and friendly, smiling, despite the nerves in my stomach and the bubbling of excitement that threatened to burst (I wanted to jump in place, to get some of that spare energy spent—coffee had been a bad idea—but at the same time I wanted to curl under the table and hide from sight). I couldn’t tell if Markus could see the conflicting feelings that rose in me like waves—he merely stared, looked away, as if something had occurred to him, then turned to look at me once more.

“C’mon then,” and he turned away, leading the way towards the door.

I followed, trying not to stumble, thinking that soon I could have him, and how he would be mine and how—

If I smiled too big when he held open the door for me, I would just blame it on nerves.

He would be _mine_.

And that was the only thought that seemed to make sense, echoing and bouncing in my skull, as I followed Markus outside.


	3. Chapter 3

_Home._

At least it would be if I could get this damned door open.

For some odd reason I couldn’t seem to find the key. Four keys on this keychain and none of them looked familiar. I rattled, filed through them, counted them, admired them, and considered throwing them on the ground, that is, until one of them miraculously morphed to the key to my front door. I nearly held it up towards the heavens exclaiming in utter joy, instead I merely squeaked, nearly dropped the keys on my foot, and then hurried to shove them against the lock.

Now the lock seemed to be playing coy with me. It moved at the last second so the key scraped against its metal instead of sinking into that damnable hole. I tried one, two, three times before I was ready to simply hammer the door down. My teeth were grit together so hard my jaw ached, knuckles standing out on my hands.

And suddenly Markus was there, his hand over mine, his breath on my neck, saying something I didn’t quite catch before he slid the key from my grasp, pushed it into the lock and turned it without the merest trace of discernible effort.

I had almost forgotten he was there.

Now my nerves sung from the contact, his breath tickled my neck, my heart gave a painful squeeze within my ribs. I was so focused on the door I had nearly forgotten the reason for my hurry—Markus. Markus had stood there passively, watching me stupidly struggle with the keys, watching the mentally addled boy struggle with the simple concept of a lock. My cheeks grew hot, and I was suddenly very unwilling to move, feeling I had made a fool out of myself.

But Markus didn’t move either. I don’t know why—maybe because he didn’t know what to do, puzzled as to why I seemed to become stuck there, in front of my own open door, or perhaps simply waiting, without a thought, for me to _move._

Nerves made me nearly jump, half skipping, half walking inside, I turned back to him and tried for my best smile—hide the nerves, try to look confident and open and friendly. “Home sweet home,” I sang, moving aside to let Markus walk in.

And walk in he did, his face betraying nothing but a mere curiosity over his surroundings, looking around openly from one wall to another before his eyes fell on me ( I tried to stand upright, straighter even, despite the fact that my knees felt like jelly ).

“Right,” I chirped, trying to fill the silence ( the excuse to look away from Markus was a plus, though I could still feel his gaze at my back ), “I don’t know if you remember, but over there is the bathroom,” I gestured towards the door, pointedly not turning around, “and there is my room—”

“I remember,” and the voice was suddenly _so close_ that it startled me. And I am ashamed to admit I jumped a little, and I think I even squeaked. I turned around only to meet Markus’ eyes because he was _right there_, a breath away from me, his face suddenly so close I merely had to lean the merest inch forward and our lips would meet.

Instead of doing what my body wanted, however, ( close the distance, lean forward, kiss him, to press against him. Every fiber of my being desired it, it was what I wanted, what I always wanted from the start ), my nerves bubbled and hysteria popped and before either of us knew it I was talking and walking and moving and twitching away from him.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply... I just thought a refresher wouldn’t hurt, but I—sorry—”

It was a good thing Markus seemed to ignore my words, because half a second after they were out of my mouth I started to regret them. But it was a like a broken dam, the words flowed without signs of stopping, and would have continued if Markus hadn’t closed the distance between us. An arm was suddenly around the small of my back, and his lips were against mine, working, moving, shutting me up. My mind drew what seemed to be a long painful blank, and I was at a loss of what to do. Was this a kiss? Were these Markus lips against mine? How did you kiss? Was I supposed to open my mouth? I think I might have just swallowed my tongue. Did your hands move or stay stagnant at your sides? And why were there teeth pressing against my lower lip—_oh, right._ I was supposed to be kissing back.

Jittery as I was, I managed to respond, with wild fervor because _Markus was kissing me._ And it was such a sweet gesture, slow and well-meaning, and it was almost sad how I couldn’t adequately respond. Instead I clung to Markus like a man drowning, dragging in whatever breath I could from his lips, and my heartbeat quickened, and my breath seemed to hitch at my throat, and I knew I was supposed to do s_omething_ with my hands, but they felt like lead, useless at my sides. I almost wanted to apologize to Markus—_I’m sorry Markus. My circuits fried. I forgot how to kiss. I forgot how to move. I’m pretty sure I also forgot how to think._

I almost forgot that I wasn’t drowning, and that I needed to split the kiss to breathe.

It was disappointing when Markus drew back, but a part of me noted that his hands didn’t leave at first, only reluctantly parting. I grinned at Markus then, feeling silly and happy because _Markus was kissing me and touching me_. His brown eyes kept looking at me, and he was here at my home again. _Again._

_Markus was here again._

And somehow that thought sounded very important, but I couldn’t recall why. I just knew I wanted Markus to stay, and I wanted him to come here every night, and I wanted to be in his arms, and feel the warmth of his skin, and his wet kisses on my skin and—

“And if you’re hungry you can have anything you want from the fridge—there’s not much, but I hope you don’t mind I don’t really—”

Why was I talking? Where were these words coming from? I wanted to stop, I wanted to shut up, but it was impossible now. I had started talking, if I shut up suddenly it would look too odd, so I needed to c_ontinue _talking.

Flustered, I moved away from Markus once more, limbs twitching spasmodically to produce the movement commonly known as _walking_. The kiss had turned my legs below my knees to useless, boneless skin. I was walking on stilts made of nothing but skin and veins, and my heart throbbed painfully in my chest and somewhere inside a desperate Jonah screamed: _What the fuck are you doing?_

And all throughout it all my face wore the stupidest smile, because despite it all I felt as happy as a pig in mud, because Markus was here. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Part of me wanted to take him to my bedroom _right now_, the other wanted the moment to linger because I didn’t want Markus to leave. I wanted him to stay for as long as possible no matter how much it would cost my pocket.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I managed to squeak when I saw him draw closer. The words were out before I could even think, and Markus seemed a bit startled. Too late, I couldn’t fetch the words back and eat them ( or I would ). I couldn’t do anything about it except stare stupidly at Markus and watch how he reacted.

There was a hesitation; he hadn’t expected the words, nor apparently the thoughts behind them. I was afraid, I wanted to apologize, to press against him and kiss him and tell him to forget I had said that—I just wanted to enjoy our time together. I didn’t want to see the trepidation in his eyes, the set of his mouth. But then he leaned forward, and his lips were working against mine, and his hands slid under the hem of my shirt, his fingers sliding slowly upwards leaving hot trails on my skin, and somehow, as he kissed, the shirt was suddenly not there, and he lowered his mouth and traced open mouthed kisses on my throat, stopping at my collarbone before he lifted his lips to meet my lips once again.

I wasn’t aware we had moved, but suddenly my back was pressed against a wall, and Markus’ hand seemed to leave for just the briefest moments and there was the sound of a door’s hinges—

_Oh_. The bedroom.

Whatever train of thought was going to be followed by that realization was cancelled as Markus’ mouth worked at my skin, and my pants suddenly felt too tight, and the clothes too restricting, and I was vibrating. Outright _vibrating_ with the sheer enthusiasm, to have Markus so close and _touching_ me and _kissing _me. I kicked my shoes off, and was about to turn to look around when Markus was there once more, herding me towards the bed, leaving me little choice but to follow in his lead, yet I was still surprised when I felt the sheets, being gently pushed towards them. I was breathless and surprised ( _was this really happening? This didn’t happen last time. Could I have gotten through to him? _), and then Markus was straddling me, and his arms pinned my hands over my head and I was so pleasantly surprised I was at a loss on how to react.

“Markus, I—”

A finger was at my lips, his hold having shifted to holding my wrists together with only one hand, I squeaked, startled, strangled the sound in my throat. A gesture to remain silent, and I was so shocked I just gaped at him. When I met his eyes there was something there—a glimmer of amusement, it was almost like he was smiling. I was wondering what it could mean when Markus’ lips were against mine and I couldn’t think, I could hardly breathe and he parted the kiss to nibble and lick at my skin and I was _so _happy—

And I didn’t really think more after that.


	4. Chapter 4

...And the square root of thirty-three is five point six five seven, and the square root of thirty-four is five point seven four five, and the square root of thirty-five is five point eight three one, and the square root of thirty-five is five point nine one six and the square root of thirty-six is six—  
  
“You alright?” the words were a mumble.  
  
His voice startled me, forced me to turn my eyes back to him, but all I could manage to squeak was a barely suppressed noise that sounded something like: “Mhrmmurr!”  
  
Markus took it in stride (much like he seemed very fond of doing), and ignored the fact that I was too incoherent to function, lifting his lips from my skin, licking his lips, and pressing them against my own.  
  
I responded as best as I could. A hand tried to reach for his face, but was subsequently held back by Markus’ own hands. Oh, right. He was currently holding them above my head, and very reluctant to relinquish his hold on them. I twitched and wiggled my fingers in hopes he got the hint, but if he saw it or felt the jerks and tugs, he ignored it.  
  
The kiss was slow and sweet, and I wanted it to stop. Not because I wanted Markus’ face away from mine—oh, no, no, no—but because the throb between my legs demanded something more than a slow gentle (weak-ass) kiss. I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and tried to not think of how slow Markus’ trek across my skin was.  
  
And slow it was.  
  
He trailed open mouth kisses down my throat, licking the skin of my collarbone, playfully setting his teeth against the bone, but forgetting to put any pressure behind the could-be bite, before covering the area with a lick. He trailed lower still, following an invisible line across my chest only to stop, his lips barely hovering against a nipple. His breath sent shivers down my spine, and the nibble he offered me had me writhing under his grasp, trying to jerk free.  
  
Markus licked and kissed mostly. His nibbles were something soft and slow; keeping in tune with the rhythm he seemed to be setting. With the same creeping slowness, his attention was turned towards the other nipple, forcing me to bite my tongue nearly in half in an attempt not to whine.  
  
If Markus noticed, he didn’t show it. Trailing his kisses lower, reaching the end of my ribcage before his hold on my hand forced him to resume his trail upwards, following the exact same pattern that made me feel like I was burning.  
  
I writhed underneath him, shifting so that my hips could rub against his. Markus seemed to catch on quickly, because with his free hand he hooked my leg around his hip, lifting his mouth from my skin, and pushed our groins together. The motion made my dick throb, and I choked back a gasp. Markus grinded against me once more and I had to bite my lip to hold back another gasp. Another, and I was sure he’d hump me into the mattress, but I didn’t care, the friction sent a hot tingling sensation that had my head swimming, and I couldn’t exactly remember what I was doing anymore—just that it needed to continue.  
  
I needed to keep grinding against Markus, needed to feel his hips against mine—so I did just that. Shifting under his grasp, and wiggling just enough so I had enough room to press myself against him, grinding and trying to get him to move with me, to feel the satisfaction that spread from the feeling of the front of his jeans against mine.  
  
Markus bucked against me, forcing a sharp hiss from between my teeth. The reaction either pleased him or amused him, because he repeated it again, and this time the sound that spilled from my lips was something in between a gasp and a choked incoherent mumble.  
  
I heard him say something that sounded like “Cute,” and just that word was enough to make my cheeks grow hot. I tried to ignore it, telling myself Markus hadn’t said a word, concentrating on the sensations and the urge to just grind against Markus, but before I could buck against him again, his lips were suddenly there, pressing on the skin just beneath the eye before meeting my lips.  
  
It was another of those slow and sweet kisses. His lips felt soft against mine, his tongue darted inside, flicking playfully. A part of me wanted to bite it off ( his tongue could be busy doing other things, why was it here? ), the other just wanted to enjoy the taste of his lips. His free hand shifted, fingers curled around my hips, holding them in place as best as he could, and his hips grinded against mine, a slow yet oddly rough motion ( I understand myself, OK? ) that sent my head spinning and the bed creaking. I could have traced the contours of his jeans with my dick if he would just let me undo the button and pull free from my jeans.  
  
Eventually, a need for oxygen forced us to part the kiss, and I gulped in greedy breaths as Markus rested his forehead against the base of my throat. Thankfully, he kept up the dizzying motion and the sweet crackling friction that made my dick feel like it was being strangled.   
  
Enough was enough, I decided when for the millionth time his hands prevented me from doing what I wanted to do. I bucked against his grip, trying to wrestle away from the hold on my wrists. When my tugs weren’t enough I whined, dragging out the sound until Markus looked up, a smile hovering on his lips.  
  
He kissed the side of my mouth, and I turned my head towards him to hiss, “Let go.”  
  
Markus lifted his hand, placing it against my cheek, the smile still threatening to peak through his lips. “But you look so cute now.”  
  
And with that I was a hot blubbering mess.  
  
What I said, I couldn’t remember for sure. A cross between nouns, pronouns, and predicates that didn’t quite make sense—I stumbled across phrases and thoughts that darted away much too quickly for me to understand what they were. For all I knew I just mumbled something and started to drool, but from the expression in Markus’ face, it was just as I feared—a jumble of words mostly consisting of half-finished gibberish and the occasional first person pronoun thrown together in the saddest attempt known to humanity into trying to compliment my lover.  
  
He pressed his lips against mine when it became obvious I needed help, effectively shutting me up. Just little pecks matched with slow grinding that made me hastily forget how to form words and what their use was for, never mind me remembering how to speak.  
  
Surprise, surprise. Markus’ grip loosened from my wrists as we kissed, and then left completely, moving his hands to pin my hips in place and buck against me once more. He grunted and I bit back a groan, flexing my fingers experimentally over my face before my hands moved, stumbling, blind, and tugging at the fabric of Markus’ shirt. The message was quickly understood, because Markus stopped entertaining my dick, and eased my hands from his shirt. He sat up just enough for me to be able to enjoy the sight of the skin underneath and wonder why he didn’t let me rip his shirt off and fling it out the window like I so wanted to.


	5. Chapter 5

With my hands freed, I set to ravage Markus’ skin. Trailing slow licks along his chest, and nibbling at the skin until it turned pink, enjoying the feel of the muscles shifting under my hands, and the way he moved. His arms set against the bed on either side of me to hold off his weight. The thought displeased me—he should be pressed against me, I wanted to feel the press of his weight, I wanted to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

As a compromise, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, lifting myself up to grind against him, trying to cling to him, to feel him close. His arms trembled with the effort to keep us up, so to help my darling Markus, I decided to buck against his grip.

Clearly there was only so much moving weight a seasoned whore could get, because with a grunt, Markus rolled to his back, taking me with him. And just like that I was straddling him—looking down at his amused bright brown eyes.

I gave a startled squeak, and found myself hastening to recover. Trying to grind against him ( more like wiggling awkwardly on his lap, a roach flipped on its back with no idea of how to un-flip itself ), and lowering my mouth to his skin again—pressing my teeth against his throat, and trailing kisses along the line of his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe. Markus spoke again, a mumbled “Jonah,” that had my face growing hot once more. I stopped there, frozen, for much too long it seemed—all because of a single proper noun—because Markus rolled me to my back once more ( I squeaked in response, forgetting to resist him ). He met my eyes, and I blushed again, looking away from him.

The next thing I knew, there was a pressure on my legs and the hiss of a zipper, and suddenly Markus’ hands were popping the button of my jean’s open, and his fingers were tugging my pants down, curling his fingers to take my underwear with them in one fell swoop. A part of me wasn’t sure if I wanted him to see my underwear or not—a mix of expectation and bitter disappointment.

My dick sprang painfully to life as it was finally released from its prison, and I forgot all about undergarments. For a few seconds, Markus was busy tugging the jeans free from my legs, struggling around my knees, to pay my throbbing member any attention. I shifted and tried to tug away from my own jeans, wondering why I hadn't put on a skirt and no underwear so Markus didn’t have to take his sweet ole’ time with them. But it was too late to wish I had cross-dressed.

Markus slid back into place when the pesky fabric was removed, letting the front of his jeans rub skim lightly against my dick ( looks like I could still trace him ), and kissed me once more. I was about to protest, dodge his lips and whine that maybe his mouth should be somewhere else when something else skimmed against me. Warm fingers curled around my erection and slowly, oh so slowly, dragged it across my length. I writhed like a man burning alive, an unattractive sound slipping from my lips which half a moment later I recognized as a moan.

Markus said something again I couldn’t quite hear over the sound of my nerves singing, and then his lips were at my mouth, and his hand pumping my length, and my hips started moving against hand, trying to go faster, to feel his warm hand grip tighter. I could barely think over the haze and sensations that fired off left and right. Markus’ hand left hot trails on my skin, fingers scorching, his kisses wet and warm. Another moan slipped from my throat, and got muffled by Markus’ lips.

When his hand left my dick, I whimpered in protest, trying to buck against his grip so I could have more of that hot tingling sensation.

Markus hands were at his ass, I had the mild hope that he was fingering himself, but seeing as the band of his jeans was still high around his hips, I had to, regrettably, crush my hopes. So I gave another whine, and tried to pull myself towards him, and he relented. Meeting my lips with a kiss, but his hands were still busy fondling his ass cheeks.

I tried tugging at his arms, tried to convince him to wrap his arms around me and stop keeping them all to himself, when he pulled back from my kiss.

“Jonah, if you don’t let me pull out the lube I can’t do much more,” his voice was soft and patient, as if trying to explain to a small child, trying to coax the damn thing into submission.

I blushed and looked away, my fingers slipping from his forearms. He grunted, fished out his whore equipment from between his ass cheeks ( OK, so maybe it was his back pockets ), and showed me that he, indeed, had a tiny little bottle of what I assumed was lubricant.

I pushed away from him, stretching down on the bed and nearly trembling with anticipation as Markus screwed the thing’s cap open (I noted that it was a yellow tube, but refrained from commenting on it), throwing it back without looking, before closing the distance between us, meeting my lips in a kiss that wasn’t as slow as the others. I growled against his lips, pressing myself against him, nibbling on his lower lip, trying to get him to move faster.

And then I felt something warm and squishy wiggling its way up my ass, and I clung to Markus and shrieked in surprise at his ear.

The fingers stopped wiggling and Markus seemed to stop breathing. We stayed like that for a while—me desperately clinging to Markus, Markus frozen with his fingers in my ass for what seemed like an eternity—then Markus dropped his head to my shoulder and gave a little groan, and my cheeks flushed red once more.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, a hand moving to stroke the back of his head, trying to somehow make up for nearly blowing up his eardrums.

“It’s alright,” his answer was slow in coming, but when it did his voice had a gentleness to it that made me feel even guiltier.

After he spoke, he resumed moving, slowly sliding two fingers out and then in. The movement made me shiver, and I clung to him, my hold shifting from his head to his shoulders, and gently rocked to the motion of his hand, trying to rub my dick against his navel, his stomach, his jeans, whenever I could. Markus’ free hand moved behind my back, holding me in place, rubbing slow circles with his fingers, restricting my movements and continuing that slow maddening pace that made my head reel.

I groaned and bit into his shoulder, trying to get him to understand somehow that we should move faster. Bucking and writhing against him to get more out of his touch. Markus grunted in surprise, but seemed adamant in keeping his pace slow and steady, pinning me against his chest when I wouldn’t stop moving.

“Oh God, Markus, please,” and I know that sounded pathetic, and Markus probably thought so too, but after more than enough of Markus with his teasing foreplay, I really do think I was more than ready for his dick.

Surprisingly enough, he relented, moving his fingers just the slightest bit faster, allowing me enough wiggle room so I could keep myself from writhing beneath him. After he was satisfied my asshole could not possibly have more of the greasy substance in it, he sat up just enough to be able to work with his own jeans, his fingers moving on the button, before he suddenly found that foreign hands were trying to unbutton him.

Markus allowed it, moving his hands away so that my own fingers could slide the jeans from his hips. A hand cupped my chin and tilted it upwards to put another of those agonizingly slow kisses against my lips. Once his dick was free from his jeans, my fingers curled greedily against his length, giving it a few tugs before Markus’ hands were grasping my ass, causing a squeak to slip from my lips. Markus smiled fleetingly against my lips then, breaking the kiss so he could, gently, coax me to lie down against the bed. Briefly, he turned away from me, and offered a sheepish apologetic smile, and I saw that he had a condom in his hands. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just smiled and looked away, trying to hide the silly huge grin that tugged at my lips.

My nerves buzzed in anticipation, I felt my breath catch in my throat, and I gasped when I felt the bed sheets against my back. I knew I should do something but my mind drew a sudden painful blank and I couldn’t remember much besides the fact that Markus would soon be sticking his dick up my ass and I was here, lying down, gaping like a fish.

It was the feel of Markus’ fingers skimming the skin of my thighs that snapped me out of it. I gave a little startled squeak when I felt his fingers grasp my legs to, presumably encourage me to wrap them around his waist. Markus stopped, however, his brown eyes wide and startled. 

I simply gave him my best goldfish impression. When he spoke, his voice soft and low, “Did I…?”

And I wasn’t sure what exactly he did, or what he thought he did, but I knew I just fucked up, and I kinda wanted to mumble “Forget it,” and crawl under the bed and go die there, but instead I managed a hasty: “No, no! I just, you’re fine, just keep doing that—it feels good.”

Possibly, that just confused Markus even more, because even I knew he wasn’t doing much more than touching my legs, and trying to hook them around his hips so he could put his dick in my butt, but he accepted the explanation readily enough. Or at least, seemed to. 

I wrapped my legs around him, and he leaned forward so we could kiss. I shuddered when I felt his dick skimming against my ass cheek, a hand grasping and lifting my hips so he could align himself to my entrance. I tensed up, baring myself for the—

“No, no,” the words were startling despite the fact that his tone was gentle, I froze with my arms around his shoulders, praying that I hadn’t just somehow screwed up or that he did not see the flamingly gay underwear, because I just realized it may have been that bad. “Relax,” he said, “don’t tense up like that—it’ll hurt more.”

What?

The words seemed to take forever to register in my sluggish brain. I blinked stupidly once or twice before my brain finally processed this new information, and when it did, it just proved to be more startling. The only thing I could honestly think was that an alien host had suddenly taken over Markus’ body overnight, because he just hadn’t been this nice last time. 

“I…” I was truly at a loss as to what to say and, luckily enough, Markus seemed to notice, because his lips were working against my skin again, and when I started to respond to his touch, he pressed his lips against my own, a warm and wet kiss that made my toes tingle.

Then there was a dick between my ass cheeks.

I wasn’t precisely sure what I was expecting, but it was clearly not Markus to suddenly thrust forward, because I gave a squeak, and my nails were digging against Markus’ back. Markus breath hissed from his lungs, but otherwise he gave no other indication of having been startled by my reaction. 

He eased the rest of his way slowly in, holding me in place and murmuring softly. Of what I couldn’t quite catch, because I was re-realizing that Markus was quite right when he suggested I relax.

Lips were briefly pressed against my throat, and this time I distinctively heard him say: “Let me know when it eases up.”

I nodded once, trying to convince myself to slowly unwrap my arms from Markus before I started cutting off some circulation, but I was pretty much held in place. Slowly, Markus turned his head towards me to press his lips against mine, moving just the slightest so he could hold me better. He cradled me in his arms with a patience that was outstanding considering his throbbing dick was held in place just because I wouldn’t give him the green light.

When the sting lessened, I broke the kiss, saying something to the effect that he could carry on. Markus seemed to hesitate, or give me the benefit of the doubt, for a few moments longer, because he did not immediately move. His fingers rubbed slow circles against my skin, his lips worked just a little longer against my throat, all before his grip tightened, and he slowly slid out, trying to keep his movements slow and careful. I grunted, trying to keep still, allowing Markus to do his thing. With the same creeping slowness, Markus slid in once more, keeping the rhythm slow and steady.


	6. Lasting forever

I could hear his breathing, slow and even, feel his arm draped over my waist, his breath at my ear. It was comforting, to feel him so close, to feel he was mine. I would lavish this moment, I would enjoy it, because I knew, I knew he’d have to leave. He would leave, but right at this moment he was mine, and I wanted it to stay that way.  
  
So I remained silent, trying to move as little as possible, trying to simply let myself relax into him—those little movements, the breathing, the way the fingers would twitch as he slept (maybe even dreamed).  
  
Or at least I thought he dreamed, but I felt him shift behind me, and I moved, just the tiniest tilt of my head, only to be surprised when my eyes met his own.  
  
“You’re awake,” I was surprised.  
  
He grunted, seemed to hesitate before he spoke: “Dozed off for a bit.”  
  
“Oh,” I was at a loss of what to say, a mixture of disappointment and despair gurgled in my stomach. I didn’t want Markus to be awake, because this meant he would want to leave. I didn’t want him to leave—to be alone, to feel the bed grow cold with his parting. No, not that. He might have been asleep just moments ago, but that meant I could enjoy his presence. Now I would have nothing of that—nothing of his soft breathing, of his soothing hands, of his warm eyes, nothing at all, but my echoing thoughts. “Did you sleep well?” I avoided the subject, somehow convinced myself that not mentioning it would make it not true.  
  
His hands wrapped around my stomach, pulling me closer to him (or was that my imagination? The gesture of his touch made more intense by the fear of his parting? A delusion and nothing more brought on by my wistful thoughts?), and he nodded against my shoulder, pressing his lips on the back of my neck.  
  
It surprised me, but I was hasty in taking advantage of the fact that he seemed to choose to linger, wanting to smell his skin, to cling to him for just a moment longer, to savor those last few moments.  
  
I turned to face him, leaning my head against his chest, trying to tug him closer, to hear the steady beat of his heart, to feel the muscles ripple and move underneath his skin. I wanted him to hold me, to tell me that he wasn’t going to leave, that he wanted to stay too.  
  
I didn’t expect anything ( of course, who would? I already knew this schedule. Grew weary of it, learned to despise it ), so I was surprised to feel his arms tightening around me, holding me closer, his lips pressing against the top of my head.  
  
And I let myself enjoy it. I let myself relax there, concentrate on breathing his scent in, in feeling the contours of his body.  
  
I don’t know for how long we stayed like that, holding each other, feeling the drowsy contentment of sleep try to claim me, but the disappointment stung nevertheless when I felt Markus shift, his hold loosen, and my chest ached, all pretenses of calm left and my composure went with it.  
  
“No,” my voice cracked, my hands tightened around his arms, “please—a little longer. Just—a little while longer.”  
  
Markus calm brown eyes seemed to study me, looking at me, but not moving. He didn’t try to bat away my grip or even shift from where I had tried to pin him, he simply looked on, and I felt my cheeks turn hot—my hold loosen, my gaze to drop.  
  
But my stomach bubbled, my hands trembled—I didn’t want him to leave, and even though I avoided his gaze (looked down at his chest instead, his arms, his shoulders), I plowed on nonetheless: “I’m sorry—I don’t mean—I know you must be busy, but I—just a little while—I’ll pay—I’ll—”  
  
My following words were made impossible to speak because suddenly Markus was there, his hands growing tighter around my back, his lips over my own, his kiss slow and gentle ( lingering ), a hand smoothing my hair back from my face, caressing my cheek, and I didn’t know if it was a farewell kiss or a kiss that promised he would stay, and I didn’t care. Markus was here now, and I would enjoy it.  
  
Even after he left.


	7. Light and fleeting

Was it the sound of footsteps, light and fleeting, along the carpeted floor, or was it the breathing, a shallow breath, growing steadier which each passing heartbeat that alerted the youth, caught halfway within a dream? Whatever the case, the deep breaths suddenly shortened, the eyelids fluttered open, and Jonah grew aware of a sudden emptiness. A hand reached out to his side only to find empty air where previously a warm body had rested. Panic shot up his spine, and he sat up, fast. The empty room was drank in with huge eyes, before the lips parted, the breath slid away from lungs.  
  
“Markus?”  
  
He did not receive an answer. Indeed, he did not expect to receive it, for Markus had left. Long ago, by the looks of it The room had a coldness about it, as if the young man had robbed it of its warmth with his parting—drained it of feeling, emotion, and thought. Unconsciously, Jonah gathered the sheets about him and shivered.  
  
“You did it again,” he told the closed door.  
  
It was then that he noticed something by the door’s side. A bundle, wrapped and left there. An inane hope rose in him, perhaps—it could be—he dared not hope—a letter from Markus? Had his lover, solemn and aloof as he was, had to depart earlier and out of—could it be?—sentimentality, left him a letter? A token of his affection?  
  
As he rose from bed, taking one of the sheets and wrapping it around himself to keep the cold at bay, he could almost see it. Markus would have risen from bed, much as Jonah himself was doing, except he would not feel the coldness. He would stand, a frown lingering on his face, jaw clenched in a strange fervor, he’d move, quiet as a cat, across the room, and scoop the pen on the desk, maybe hesitate before doing so. His hand hovering above the tool for the slightest moment, eyes flicking towards Jonah’s sleeping form, the pen in his hand, turning towards the printer, and taking a paper from there. He would move towards the window, with the same quiet, careful steps, and push the curtain aside just the slightest of inches, so he could write by moonlight. The scrawl of pen and paper, and their two breaths would be the only sound for a short stretch of time, before Markus stopped, re-read the letter, made sure it was just right, and moved to dress. The last thing he would do was leave the letter by the door...  
  
But Jonah could see now it was no love letter. It was a bundle of bills, folded just as he had given them, and simply left at the door as if they had been forgotten. Just like him.  
  
Tears prickled at his eyes, and a scream threatened to rip from his throat. He wanted to throw something, to tear, to shred, to punch. Instead, Jonah did none of these things. No, instead he slid to the floor, and felt time trickle by.


	8. Promises

“Markus?”  
  
The words were soft, almost shy. He lay with his cheek against my chest, eyes half-closed, tracing mindless shapes on my skin with his fingers.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“When are you free?”  
  
I hesitate, “I don’t know…”  
  
His fingers clench, his jaw tightens. Stubbornness seems to leak into his eyes.  
  
“Maybe tomorrow?” a mindless suggestion. I don’t really know if it’s true. If I’ll be able to attend, but a one-time promise to pacify him.  
  
He nods, the movement hampered by my body, and closes his eyes.  
  
“Tomorrow,” it sounds almost like a promise.

\--------------------------

  
  
“You lied,” it’s more than an accusation; it sounds almost like a curse.  
  
I lift my head, surprised. Yes, I did lie, but I didn’t expect him to look so, well, angry. His hair was disheveled, red of face, his clothes thrown carelessly over his shoulder—so unlike Jonah that it was one of the first things I noted—and I could see discarded items, presumable thrown, on the floor behind him.  
  
I simply stood there. Mute, unknowing, feeling something settle and rot in my stomach.  
  
“Get out.”  
  
Not much to say there—I was already out, waiting to step over the threshold.  
  
He slams the door shut, and I hear a single dull note of an object smacking against the door.  
  
I know what this feeling is now.  
  
This feeling is guilt.

\--------------------------

  
  
“Why don’t we go out?”  
  
The suggestion was the wrong thing to say. I can see it now. His eyes tighten, his mouth settles in a neutral line. I get the feeling that I should shut up. Turn my eyes away, pretend I didn’t say anything, but then I see him again—standing before the door, and I see something I hadn’t noticed before, his eyes are red, bags under them, he is biting the inside of his cheeks, he avoids my gaze.  
  
I trace his lips with my thumb. He looks up. I press my lips against his.  
  
“I have to go,” I hear myself say.  
  
“Go,” and just like that, he turns away.

\--------------------------

  
  
Laughter is in the air.  
  
A girl grabs a boy’s hand and leans against his shoulder. Two siblings grin at each other. A man looks at his wife and smiles to himself. Children run and try to catch each other under the fading light.  
  
“I guess we’re not very good at planning,” his voice is soft, but his fingers tighten round my hand, and I can’t help a little smile of my own.  
  
“No, I guess not.”  
  
He turns his eyes towards me and smiles, “But today was nice.”  
  
I meet his eyes, smile, and nod.  
  
And away from sight, he leans his head on my shoulder and watches the sky, waiting for fireworks.


	9. Mornings

His hair formed a messy halo about his head that persisted even when he pushed himself up on the bed. When he noticed my eyes on him, he flashed me a sleepy smile, but whatever words he tried to speak next were swallowed up by a yawn that cracked his jaw open and overtook his senses. He stretched, his skin sliding smoothly over the swell of bones and muscles. Despite his slight build, Jo was surprisingly well-built—hard lean muscles covered his arms and abdomen, and although not severely marked, gave a shape to his body that was almost unexpected.

I wrapped my arms around his waist, dragging him to me so I could press my lips against his flesh. He looked down at me with an expression of puzzled surprise, smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“We’re going to get bed sores,” his voice was fogged by sleep, and a yawn broke through his lips as soon as the words were out, but he looked more awake.

“That’s fine,” I mumbled back, inhaling the smell of his warm skin, enjoying the feel of its smoothness.

We stayed like that for a few breaths, Jo’s eyes looking about himself, his hand resting on my head, fingers tangling against the hairs there.

He stirred suddenly, his eyes bright as he studied me, “Can we,” a hesitation, his eyes briefly wandered before flicking towards me once more, “can we have a quickie—I want—”

His words cut off and I managed a smile. Without voicing my thoughts, my fingers grasped either side of his waist, nudging him across the mattress until he straddled me, his hair sticking out, his excitement apparent in every movement.

He traced kisses along my neck as he moved against me, his legs and crotch rubbing skimming against the skin of my thighs and crotch in a hypnotic tandem that made heat pool in my stomach. When my member started responding to his touch, he smiled down at me, eager as always—so eager in fact, that I didn’t notice when he fished the bottle of lube out of the nightstand, I simply grew aware that he was groaning softly against the skin of my chest as he covered himself with the sticky substance.

I struggled to respond to his ministrations with my own as best as I could. He became enlivened whenever I touched him, and writhed under my fingertips so much so to make it hard to hold him. When he finally balanced himself over me, pushing himself down on my hardened dick, it was all he could do to contain himself.

He bounced on my lap at a maddening pace, using both legs and arms to support himself. As I sunk deeper into him, he moaned, the sounds building up until one was almost undistinguishable than the next. I tried moving against him, but he quieted my movements with two slim fingers—he wanted to do this one on his own, it seemed.

When the rhythm picked up, and his breathing grew erratic, I struggled to pleasure him, grasping his member, pumping my hand around him, and hoping the climax came soon—it never took long with Jo.

When it did, a suddenly loud gasped moan broke through his lips, and his cum coated my fingers. He held himself over me just long enough to draw a few gasped breaths before leaning against my chest, placing his head against my ear with little care of how he squished my hand against him.

“It’s hard to get you to like it too,” he spoke softly, his voice low.

I tried to ignore the pun, “I do like it,” I tried telling him, my free hand smoothing his hair back from his face.

“You say that.”

“I do,” not much to answer to that. I already felt my eyes half closing, my body already winding down.

Jo did not respond, he closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around me, refusing to free my now-cramping hand.


	10. It looked like hope

Silence filled the house.

Moonlight filtered through the window, providing the only source of illumination. Outside, the usual artificial lights that accompanied the cityscape were absent. Even the usual sounds were absent.

A shaky breath.

The silence is broken.

“W-where?”

The sound of his own voice startles him, and Jonah quiets. Eyes wide, without moving from the spot he currently stands, he rotates his head, trying to identify what is amiss.

It’s the silence, of course it’s the silence, but there’s something else too. The house feels cold, almost suffocating, and there’s the feeling of eyes drilling into the back of his head. As soon as he identifies the feeling, the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and a tremor spreads across his body. Somebody is watching him, of this he is completely and utterly sure.

Too afraid to turn, but too afraid to run and escape, he simply stands there. He feels the shadows shifting, hears heavy footsteps, echoing impossibly against the walls of the house. He holds his breath.

“Jonah,” the name on its lips is as soft as a lover’s.

Survival instinct kicks in, and Jonah immediately sinks to the floor. A moment later, a fist skims and misses the top of his head. There’s a grunt of surprise, Jonah clutches at his head, the body tumbles over him, knocking his breath away. But he is safe, he has avoided the clutch of the—he looks at the tangle of limbs—a man, limbs thick as trunks. Jonah gasps, scrambles away on all fours, fingers clutching at the carpet beneath, breath fast and shallow, his heart feels like it’s going to burst. The man turns his face towards him, cursing, but there is nothing there. Only a vast darkness.

A scream threatens to rip from his throat, but Jonah bites it back to a mere whimper. He has to move, before the man stands up, before it gets its hands on him. He clutches at the nearest piece of furniture—a sofa, and hauls himself up and runs.

But where? The kitchen? Knives and steel and fire? Does he dare defend himself against his creature? But no, terror snaps at his spine, he can’t seem to remember how to run straight, let alone clutch a knife. His hands shake. No. The hallway. He must run. Hide.

He runs there. A wild flashing hope makes him throw his hand out, clutching the corner of a portrait, and flinging in to the floor in hopes of derailing the monster. He catches a flash of a young boy, smiling face, clutching at something while an older woman smiles over his shoulder, before there is nothing but cracked glass. He keeps running.

But the man is fast. With a roar of rage, he chases after Jonah, barely flinching as the glass slices the flesh of his feet. Its hands curl into claws, and it grasps uselessly at the air. Adrenaline makes him run faster, but it’s all for naught. The hallway seems endless, stretching for forever, his limbs tire. The monster catches him.

He dies. Emotions ripped from body, tore from soul. He is exposed, wings pinned to his sides, a knife slits his abdomen open, exposing the heart, fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.

But I’m safe. I’m here, I’m safe. I got away from the beast, hulking and snorting as it was before the other. I can hear him still. Ripping at the other Jonah—the one with the bright red long wig and the tight tight pants. He screams and begs for help, but he doesn’t know that no one can hear him here. Something snatches the words as they leave his lips and gobbles them up. It’s taunting, in its own way, to hear the sound of your own voice, but it brings little comfort.

I close my eyes, though it makes little difference. Here in the darkness I’m safe. That’s what I keep telling myself, at least—in the darkness, I’m safe. I hug my knees to my chest and concentrate on breathing evenly and slowly.

In the hallway the other Jonah quiets. The beast snorts and swivels its fat head, its invisible eyes glaring at the darkness. I can hear it tromping around, snuffling and trying to catch the scent of its prey. I feel a trickle of sweat running down my face. I lift my hand and swipe it away.

There is a soft knock on the door and I tense. I hold my breath. My heart skips a beat. I hear the knob turning, the door opening, and then the snuffling, sniffling, dirty thing that searches for me. I hear its voice, taunting me. Insults permeate the air—fag, lowlife, I hope you die, you’re worth nothing, you’re no son of mine.

I wrap my hands over my ears to block out the sounds. But I can see—towards slits in the closet’s door, I can see the beast skulking. It snorts in disgust at a harmless jacket, resting on a chair. With a grunt it tips the whole thing over. It grabs something from the desk and throws it to the floor. It stomps on the floor. It lifts a single notebook with yellowed pages, and flings it at the closet. The smack shakes my bones.

A sound alerts it of my presence. A scuffle off a shoe against wood. It stills, stands in place, and drinks in the scents in the air.

Get away, get away, get away.

I feel it grin beneath the black mask. It turns slowly, arms waving, fingers grasping an invisible throat, squeezing, squeezing. I gasp. It lunges, crashing against the doors, nails digging into the wood. It voice booms, but I don’t hear it. I retreat within the recesses of my mind and watch it all fly by.

Jonah clutches at his head and whimpers something that sounds like “No, no, no. Please stop." He scrambles away from the doors until the wall is at his back, and he turns around and claws at the wall. 

This isn’t supposed to happen, he tells himself, you’re supposed to stay away. But it doesn’t care. It keeps breaking the door with its claws, and roaring a senseless string of words and sentences that get snatched by the moonlight and filled with silver kisses. He isn’t listening. He isn’t hearing. He closes the closet’s door and prays for a god to save him.

The god comes in the form of hands grasping his neck and the darkness that closes in on him.

\---

"Jonah? Jonah!”

The face before me is blurry, but there is no mistaking the edge on the voice. It makes my already madly beating heart beat faster. A hand grasps my arms, fingers digging into the flesh. I gasp.

“Please, stop.”

He relinquishes his hold.

“Jonah? Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

I am surprised for some reason, but I cannot seem to recall why. It’s the voice—something to do with the voice. My throat is scratchy, my mouth dry, my limbs are sticky with sweat, and my face and hair feel damp. I reach for something, but the fingers contract around thin air. There is nothing there. Not the rough surface of the door, not the wall at my back. 

“Where—?” it comes out as a croak.

I blink, I shake my head. Flies buzz in there, annoyed when they smack against the inside of my skull. Something stirs. A notion rears its head and blinks.

“Markus?" the word brings comfort and the memory of kisses, warm caresses.

"Yes.”

“Oh,” for some reason that surprises me. What was it with Markus? There was something... "But you never stay.“

There is a chuckle, and a hand at my cheek, surprisingly gentle. No apology, no nothing. Just his fingers, caressing, smoothing my hair back. My hand reaches to grasp his own. For some reason it does not fit. The closet, the dark, the damp, the booming voice, Markus, gentle, soft, caring, here.

"Shh.”

“But why—?”

“It was a dream,” he voice is soothing, gentle, enticing me to close my eyes, to let myself melt into the moment.

That’s when I notice how my limbs shake, how fast my heart beats, and that something hot trails down my cheeks. A hand reaches for the tears, and I stare in surprise at the wet fingers. Markus takes the hand in his, and strokes slow circles into the palm with his thumb.

Without thinking I say, “I’m scared.”

He stays silent, his jaw tenses. There is something in his eyes, but he turns his face away from me before I can catch it. I want to tell him to look at me, to tell me what he’s thinking, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. So I sink into myself, and watch Jonah, with Markus sitting up by his side. Markus looks out to the window from where he sits by Jonah’s side, searching for something in its depths. Light filters through and heightens the planes of his face. He looks almost mournful.

Something about it strikes me, and I feel tears prickling again. I try to push them back, and the words come unbidden to my lips. "Leave.“

Markus turns his face towards me, confusion in his eyes.

"Leave me alone.”

He doesn’t move.

“Just leave.”

Still, he stays. I find myself impatient; the ugly beast rears its head and barks. "Fuck off, whore! I’m tired of your fucking pity. What do you even want from me? Not my money, not sex, then what?“ My back is against the bed’s backboard, my chest heaving.

Markus stirs then, just the slightest bit. He looks away from me and towards the window. I think I catch a glimpse of the emotion in his eyes, like a priest reading a eulogy.

Rage makes my vision turn red, my hands wrap around the sheets, wishing they were around his neck. "Fuck off,” I say, carefully enunciating each word.

He turns towards me again, this time moving, as if to touch me. I shy away. "Stop,“ he says, "you don’t mean it.”

I grit my teeth, fingers curling up in a fist. I want to say “Yes I do,” but as soon as I open my mouth, he’s there.

His lips are soft and demanding, seeking something, searching. I try to push him away, my hands at his chest, but he doesn’t budge, merely grabs one and gently moves it aside. I want to tell him to stop, I want to tell him to leave, but I find myself responding to him. My lips moving against his, tasting minty toothpaste—he was in the bathroom?—and salty tears. And I feel something, in the way he moves, the way he traces his fingers on the contours of my body. Something he doesn’t say. 

It’s my answer.

He’s here.

And that’s all that matters.


	11. Affections

The sound of the rain drumming on the window dulled out every other sound—Markus could not even here the usual squabble of the neighbors as they went over their early morning rooting. Nothing save the soothing drum of the rain, in fact—and the gentle breathing of Jo.

He slept deeply, his head resting over Markus’ outstretched arms, and his lips slightly parted. The long lashes stood dark and in stark contrast with his smooth pale skin. His brown hair formed a messy halo about his head, tickling Markus’ arms. He was on his side—one arm pinned under him so that Markus could only see the fingers and the bulge of the hand, peeking out from under his midsection. His other arm—the one that remained free to move—was stretched across Markus, to rest over his chest.

They had fallen asleep facing the opposite way—not for any particular reason, it was simply that the day’s activity had wore them off. Heat matched with movement made it so that they were both sluggish, and when they stumbled to bed, they fell asleep immediately. Sometime during the night, they had both stirred to clutch at each other—to feel the other’s warmth pressing against the skin, and in this way, Markus had woken.

He did not dare move, for Jo still slept, so he allowed himself to enjoy the view.

Jo was slim and slight—it would be simple to mistake his build as girlish, but there was the hint of something there. Muscles stuck out on his well-built arms and legs that suggested that, at some point, he tried working out, not extremely, but for enough time for muscle to develop some. Markus had no idea what made him stop, but it didn’t particularly matter. It was simply a thing he’d like knowing—to better understand and enjoy his lover’s company.

There was a small groan, and Jo stirred in his sleep, shaking his head, and tightening his jaw, but before long, he settled back with a sigh and went back to sleep.

Markus smiled, feeling a pleasant warmth spread in his belly. He wanted to reach over and place a kiss on Jo’s brow, but he’d fear that would wake him. In the end, he stayed where he was, looking at Jo as he slept, enjoying the way his shoulders moved as he breathed. He thought that maybe he’d so something nice for Jo today—give in to one of his little fantasies, or maybe, order the pizza himself for a change. Jo would like that—maybe. Probably.

It’d be a small thing, but he had no idea of how else to show Jo his affection. He would do it though. Today. He’d come up with something today.


	12. Backpacks and pee

“Markus?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Aren’t you hungry?”  
  
A pause, he seemed to need to consider it before answering; “No.”  
  
I shifted against him, my head that had been previously resting on his chest tilted, looking up, seeing only the line of his jaw. I frowned, pushed myself up on my elbows ( being careful to not use Markus’ chest as my leverage ), and looked down at his face.  
  
I was unsurprised to note that his eyes were closed.  
  
“It’s late,” I tried again.  
  
He didn’t even crack one open, “So?”  
  
I sighed, debated if it was worth it to follow that subject. Gave up, and flopped back down at the bed. He shifted then, pressing himself against my back and draping an arm over my waist. Still not a word to indicate he had any intention of moving farther than that (either to leave or do early morning rituals). I tried to push back the thrill that his touch (and the thoughts) brought to my stomach. He’ll leave sooner or later, I told myself. He’d have to for one reason or the other. Left the stove on, forgot to pay electricity, a sudden urge to gaze at his own room—some stupid excuse like that ( not that he said anything—he never did. Merely moved and he was off ).  
  
I tried to stand then, slide from his grip because he might not feel like standing up, but I did, when I felt his grip tightened, attempting to pin me down with only one arm.  
  
I sighed.  
  
“I need to pee,” I tell the stubborn arm wrapped around my waist.  
  
I receive no response—the arm doesn’t loosen or tighten.  
  
“Markus—I need to pee.”  
  
Now I receive a reaction alright. His other arm snakes under my torso and pulls me towards him; he rests his head on my shoulder.  
  
“Let go,” this time my voice comes out as a whine—my fingers wrap around his wrists an attempt to tug.  
  
He throws his leg over my waist.  
  
Two words pop into my head:  
  
Stubborn. Ass.  
  
“Markus, I’m serious. I’m going to explode in piss over here.”  
  
His only response is to press himself against my back, press his lips against the back of my shoulder.  
  
He’s not moving.  
  
“I have a right to my morning piss.”  
  
He doesn’t move.  
  
“I am being deprived of basic necessities.”  
  
Nothing.  
  
“I am pissing on you if you don’t let me go.”  
  
He shifts, moves his head, I feel the tickle of his breath at my ear, “No.”  
  
No.  
  
No? What the fuck? That’s the last straw at diplomacy—my patience has run thin. I need to piss, this is a serious matter, and as such, requires swift action. So I trash in his grip, buck, heave, flail and manage to kick nothing but the bed sheets. Throughout it all Markus barely flinches—somehow between my desperate war cries and attempting to buck from his grip, Markus managed to wrap the other leg around me. His grip is like vice. I now officially have a Markus backpack.  
  
How can someone sound so sleepy one moment and act as awake as ever on the next? Markus had sounded deep in sleep—I had almost been afraid I had woken him if it hadn’t been for the changed pattern in his breathing, and now here he was, acting as awake as ever.   
  
It had been an act, I decided. He had simply been biding his time waiting for the opportune time to pounce.  
  
“Let go,” I whine, trying to tug at his arms once again.  
  
He doesn’t even bother answering me.  
  
“Markus, c’mon.”  
  
At first I receive no answer, then he lays a sloppy kiss on my jaw line and breathes; “Say pretty please.”  
  
“Oh, fuck you.”  
  
I give up trying to reason with the backpack. Dora would have been disappointed, but at the moment I couldn’t care less. With Markus still on my back, I shift, wiggle, and manage to awkwardly nudge my way towards the edge of the bed, Markus not making the job any easier. My plan is to crawl to the bathroom if I must.  
  
Of course, we could all see it happening from miles away. I cannot carry a grown man, so I obviously cannot carry Markus. So as I reach the edge of the bed, I hesitate, crawl, titter, totter, and fall.  
  
Not pleasant considering Markus was still on top of me, but at the least the fall wasn’t that long.  
  
My head smacked hard against the floor, I bang my elbow on the bed frame, and Markus’ weight probably cracked my spine clean in two. I’m paralytic. Good-bye pissing. Good-bye being able to fuck too for that matter.  
  
Oh, yeah, no walking either. Shit.  
  
Blissfully unaware of the fact that I might have just lost the use of my lower extremities, Markus detaches himself from the tangle our bodies had become, and gently flips me over despite my groans and protests to stop doing so. His eyes meet mine, and I catch that amused glimmer in them that makes my breath catch at my throat and a pleasant warmness to blossom in my chest. I blush, and he seems to grow even more amused. Despite the fact that I suddenly feel quite happy to be pinned under Markus, I still need to pee.  
  
I am about to inform him of this again, when Markus lowers his lips to mine and we kiss. I somehow forget about pee for about a whole minute, because his mouth may taste like morning breath, but his lips are so soft and gentle against mine I just melt into a puddle of happy Jo pee under him.  
  
When we split the kiss, of course, my bladder whines its sheer protest. I think we’ve offended it. So with a little string of saliva still clinging from our lips (a lovely addition to a lovely morning), I say: “I really need to pee.”  
  
Markus seems shocked. Like I just kicked him in the balls—he stares blankly at me, uncomprehending ( or maybe disbelieving ) until he finally decides I’m being serious. He doesn’t say anything then, but merely moves away from me so I can finally escape to the bathroom.  
  
I push myself up, debate what would be the healthier choice before I scramble to his side, look into his eyes and smile brightly. “I’ll be right back,” I promise.  
  
I’ve never pissed and brushed my teeth faster in my life.  
  
When I scrambled back to the room, Markus was still sitting down on the floor, exactly where I left him. His head leaned back (towards the bed), and he appeared to have been staring at the ceiling, but lifted his head, eyes fixing on me, when I walked in. I hesitated at the doorway, and he moved once more, lifting a hand in invitation.  
  
I may have given a little embarrassing squeak just then. I rushed to him, lowering myself to his lap, wrapping my arms over his shoulders and grinning at him. My mood seemed to improve in correlation to the lack of pee in my bladder ( I forgot about the fact that Markus might still leave, that he had cruelly attempted to rid me of my right to pee, that I had hit my head because of his stubbornness ), and simply enjoyed the feel of him.  
  
“You OK?” the question surprised me.  
  
“Yeah,” and I meant it of course, what could possibly be wrong with me? Markus was staying, I was currently sitting on his lap, and I could feel nothing but a pleasant little buzz in my stomach ( Markus was mine ).  
  
It didn’t seem to satisfy him. He ran his fingers lightly over my elbow, as if expecting a bruise, and once the inspection was done, he turned the eyes towards my head, the question in his eyes so painfully obvious I had to bite back a smile.  
  
I shook my head in response to it, “Nothing. I’m fine—just banged it a little.”  
  
He nodded, and looked away from me (a brief thing, a passing glance as if deciding what to do), but I wouldn’t allow it. I shifted my grip on his shoulders, and moved on his lap, slowly, carefully, grinding against him, making sure to leave little room for wrong assumptions ( wouldn’t want that now, would we? ).  
  
Brown eyes flicked towards me again, and I met his gaze with a grin.  
  
A smile threatened to tug Markus’ lips upwards, barely held back, he shook his head, as if clearing it from flies, and looked up at me, leaning forward, pressing his lips against mine.  
  
And he still tasted of morning breath, but, hey, at least I wasn’t peeing myself this time.


	13. Breakfast

The scent of butter, eggs, and oranges permeated the room. It wasn’t common for me to try to make an effort in preparing some actual food, but today was different. I woke up buzzing with energy, in need of movement, action—I couldn’t sit _still._ I wanted to _do_ something. I had nearly jumped from bed with buzzing thoughts and that uneasy feeling in my stomach, and as I brushed my teeth I decided that the kitchen would suffer the consequences of my mood.

The perfect solution of course—I burn off some excess energy and we all get breakfast. Never mind the fact that I rarely cooked. I had convinced myself this was a brilliant plan and that all would turn out great.

As if.

It turned out we were out of drinkable juice of any kind. It was nothing a quick run to the mart just by the corner wouldn’t fix—but then it turned out that I didn’t know what Markus would like. Brilliant. Too late to turn back and ask, so I pretty much got one of every available fruit they had (what the hell were some of these things—I had no idea), as long as I could carry them.

At least we weren’t about to have any shortages of juice.

I had sworn, of course, in my naïve ignorance, that Markus would be up and about by then, and very puzzled as to why Jonah was nowhere nearby (only as I opened the front door did it occur to me that I should have left a note, explaining where I was). When I hadn’t seen him anywhere, I had peeked into the bedroom only to see him still deep in sleep.

Oh, OK. Note to self: never worry about Markus being up early or waking him up with noises—the guy slept like the dead.

After verifying vital signs, I slinked from the bedroom and went to bring my glorious idea into fruition.

The juices didn’t almost fit in the fridge, but after a bit of coercion, I managed to get them in line. After I made sure those wouldn’t fall on the unfortunate soul that opened the fridge, I gathered the materials needed for making breakfast, set them down on the kitchen counter and surveyed my tools.

Eggs, toast, butter, a knife, two forks, an arrangement of dishes, a frying pan, and my own two hands.

Perfect.

Not.

Buttered toast and eggs then—no other way around it. I briefly debated over with myself trying to figure out if Markus would prefer his eggs scrambled or sunny-side up, and then decided scrambled eggs would be easier. Scrambled eggs it was then.

Did Markus like his toast lightly roasted or crispy?

No way of knowing that either.

Procrastinating on the toasts then.

On to the eggs.

The egg carton was half run out, with only six harmless brown shells stuffed inside. I couldn’t decide if Markus was a heavy eater or not so, to be safe, I picked the safe count of two eggs each, cracking them on the counter’s corner—and why am I narrating about how to prepare eggs? They’re eggs, couldn’t be duller. I just stuffed them in the pan and got to scrambling. 

That’s about the time Markus stumbled into the kitchen—eyes half-closed, squinting at everything, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, cracking a yawn, hair standing up on end. In short: looking like we just had sex last night, went to sleep, and he just rolled out of bed.

And for some reason it made my knees weak.

I smiled brightly, managed to remember how to speak and coughed up a very eloquent: “G’morning.”

Markus mumbled something that sounded like “’Morn,” and did a very good job of standing there and looking sleepy and tussled and cute.

The smell of something burning interrupted my thoughts.

Right. Eggs. They burn easily.

I turned my attention back to cooking, poking at the eggs and trying to look intellectual while cooking and clattering the various utensiles, and somehow between contemplating if they were ready and if Markus liked eggs dry or not, I felt arms around my waist.

“You didn’t have to.”

I turned to look over my shoulder, smiling—feeling Markus so close, and _real_. I wanted to lean back, to enjoy the feel of his arms around me; instead I opened my mouth and squeaked.

Smooth, Jonah, smooth.

“Where’s my kiss?” I squeaked again.

I think I made him smile then (points for Jo), but at least I got my kiss. It was nothing more than a peck, before Markus pulled back, and I was left trailing after his lips almost expecting him to return.

Nope, just a morning peck.

Nope, wait, false alarm, he was coming back. This time the kiss was sweet and lasting, and I may have, at some point, dropped the plastic spatula on the counter and turned around so I didn’t have to break my neck to reach Markus’ lips, when Markus was suddenly pulling back again.

I gave a little whine, but even before he said it, I realized what it was.

The eggs.

Can’t burn the house down because of a kiss, right?

I sighed. I couldn’t help but being a bit disappointed, but I did turn back to the eggs, fishing them out of the pan, cracking the next and setting to work on scrambling once more. Throughout it all I could feel Markus’ eyes on me, and I didn’t know if I looked like a twitchy, jittery mess, but I sure as hell felt like it.

So, of course I had to chatter to fill the silence.

“We were out of juice so I went ahead and got some. I didn’t know what you liked so I got a few different ones. They’re in the fridge and you can just check those out? If you don’t like any I can go out again and get you something you like—it’s not that much of a problem. I mean, don’t want you to die of thirst and such.”

Markus understood the message, gave a little nod, moved towards the fridge, opened it, and stared.

OK, well maybe he was a little taken aback by the sheer quantity of half-gallons of liquidated fruit in the fridge, but points for him for barely showing it. He bounced back from that one like a pro. After a brief pause, Markus pulled out what was presumably the first gallon his fingers wrapped around, turned it to eye the sticker on it, and said:  
  
“Tamarind.”

Yes, tamarind juice. Amazing. Why the hell did I pick up that? I’m an idiot.

“Do you like that?” yes, let’s spiral towards an endless void of idiocy by asking Markus if he liked the hell juice.

Markus shrugged. It seemed an appropriate response. To shrug. I wondered if he was just shrugging off the Tamarind juice or the whole fridge-load of it. I know I would be.

And just like that, my cheeks were burning. Markus didn’t seem to mind, but it suddenly sounded like an outright _stupid_ idea, and I know I shouldn’t have, but I guess it was too late to return the juices to the store, and Markus had seen them anyway and, _fuck Jo—_grow a brain.

“It’s alright.”

I turned around, a bit startled by Markus’ words, only to see him with a cup of the devil juice in his grasp. Presumably he had just tasted it. He lifted his eyes and looked back at me, and I could just stare stupidly and hold the plastic spatula and wonder where my thoughts were scattering.


	14. Those Things That Stick

It wasn’t the first time I lay down like this, Markus snoring softly by my side. The artificial light from the lamppost across the street made the silhouette of his body stand out. I couldn’t see his face, but if I closed my eyes, I could imagine it. He would be sleeping peacefully, his mouth slightly open, and a string of saliva dangling from his lower lip. Adorable. 

And I was half tempted to reach over and shake him awake because I could just _not_ sleep.

There was something bothering me—making my thoughts swirl, turning frantic glances in Markus’ direction, waiting for a hitch of his breath, a sudden stir, any_thing_ to tell me he was alive and awake, and that I could talk to him. Several times, I was tempted to shake him awake anyway.

But this was _Markus_, sleep to him was the way he honored his gods—the great gods of naps and happy bedtimes, and not giving a fuck. If I disturbed his careful worship, I’d most likely get snark and growls in response. Markus could be a sweetheart, sure—when you weren’t interrupting with his sleep. He was like a great big lazy cat. You pet him, and it’s all cute and fluffy, but you wake him and he’d turn your face to hamburger.

I had nothing against hamburgers, and I meant no offense to them, but I did not want my face to look like one.

Yet, if I let Markus sleep on, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I’d wake up with bags under my eyes, my hair standing up as if I had stuck my finger to an electrical socket, and all I’d have to say for an explanation would be—

“You wouldn’t wake up.”

And then Markus would blink, a single eyebrow would be arched and he’d ask the obvious:

“Then why didn’t you wake me up?”

Or, knowing Markus, he wouldn’t say anything at all, but he’d sure be _thinking_ it.

That’d be torture, I’d look at him out of the corner of my eye, chew on my lip, try to think of something to say to make him _stop_ thinking it, but I wouldn’t be able to _say_ anything. And he’d keep thinking his thoughts, and watching TV, and considering taking a nap, and I’d be stuck with that _torture_ of wanting him to _stop _but being unable to_._

“Markus?” my voice was low, trying not to alarm him. Carefully, I turned to my side and grasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

He didn’t even grace me by stirring. Nope. Still nappy time for Markus.

“Markus,” this time, I tried making my voice more urgent, shaking him a little rougher.

I think I may have choked him for a few seconds, for he made a rather disgusting noise on the back of his throat, but otherwise, he didn’t stir.

“Mar_kus_,” I debated shoving him off the bed, but it was only a brief, fleeting thought.

This time, he seemed to stir (not that I could see very well, since he was opposite from the light), and then he turned, a small groan slipping from his lips.

I tried not to grin.

“Hey, Markus,” I pulled myself closer to him, still trying to bite back that grin, “you awake?”

A groan, low and stretched out in a characteristic Markus whine.

Excellent.

“I meant to ask,” he had one eye cracked open, and a hand smoothed back his hair, but otherwise, he made no sign of hearing me, “How come all your stuff is yellow?”

He blinked at me, rubbing at his eyes, and said in a slurred, sleep-fogged voice, “What?”

“Yellow,” I tried keeping my voice low, ever-patient and adoring lover that I was, “the condom, the lube, your keychain—it’s all yellow.”

He blinked at me again, and I thought he’d attack me then but he just said, “Not yellow,” like that explained anything.

“Then what?”

“Banana.”

“_What?_”

“I like to keep a theme,” he frowned then, “Did you wake me up to ask that?”

I grinned, nodded, “Yeah.”

He glared, grumbled something rude under his breath, and shoved me off him, rolling to his side. The message was clear: _leave me the hell alone_. I was reminded again of a grumpy lazy cat.

But I grinned nonetheless, and moved closer to his back, “That’s interesting.”

He grunted.

“Want to cuddle?”

He responded with a groan, but he turned around anyway, letting me slip into the circle of his arms, trying to bite back giggles. I leaned my forehead against my shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around me. We stayed quiet like that, and in no time, he was back to sleeping, and a little part of me envied his ease. I wish _I_ could fall asleep that easy.

But now another thought tormented me: Why bananas?


	15. A Bubbly Death

“What’s that?”

The question came unbidden to his lips. His eyes widened, and a hand reached to tug compulsively at the neck of his shirt. Upon hearing the words, Jonah looked up, a small smile hovering over his lips. It was also worth noting that he was completely bare naked.

Instead of replying, Jonah turned around, offering a larger smile as he did so. Carefully, he picked his way over to the tub, avoiding the white bathroom tiles, and stepping over the fluffy yellow carpets that stood before the sink and the toilet. Once he stood before the tub, he turned around, still smiling, a coy, shy thing.

“I was hoping you’d join me.”

Markus pushed himself to his toes, and peered at the contents of the tub from his perch just by the door. The tub was completely filled with a blue liquid, bubbles piled over the edges, and mindlessly floated within towards the center.

“Blue bubbles?”

Jo looked back at him, his brow knotted with concern, “I thought you liked blue.”

Markus avoided pointing out that the color wasn’t his concern. “Bubble bath?”

At that, Jo hopped over to him, and Markus tried not to look at the wiggly bits. Jonah either didn’t notice or was shameless, he peered at Markus, grabbing his arm and smiling up at him. Gently, he tugged at the hand, urging Markus to step forward.

“I want a bubble bath with you—I’ll wash your back, can I?” a thought seemed to occur to him then, because he words abruptly stopped, and his eyes grew wide, “Do you want to wash my back? Well, what are you waiting for! Or are you going to wash in your clothes?”

Markus opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly Jo was there, his lips pressing against Markus’, and his arms wrapped over his shoulders. Markus tried to keep up—tried to react in time, but his mind spun. He held Jonah to him and concentrated on moving his own lips in response.

When Jo pulled back his cheeks were flushed, and a smile hung over his lips. “Are you going with clothes?”

“I-no—_no!_” his response was hurried, tried to get the words out before Jonah could assault him again.

Jonah grinned wide at his reaction, and turned his attention to Markus’ clothes. His fingers slipped towards the hem of the shirt, and Markus tried not to shiver at his cold touch. A little tug, and Jonah had the shirt pulled just below his chin. He wiggled the rest of the way out. When he opened his eyes, Jonah had flung the shirt towards the hallway.

Markus tried not to frown, but failed.

“What? It’d get wet in the bathroom.”

When Markus didn’t respond, Jonah turned to his pants. Tugging both underwear and sweatpants down with a single tug, and bursting into giggles when he nearly head butted Markus’ dick in his haste. Gingerly, wary of Jonah’s head, Markus kicked off the rest of the garments, and stepped out of them.

Before he could even blink, Jonah was kissing him again. Briefly, Markus wondered if the bubbles could sting his eyes.

When Jonah drew back he developed the tick to hop in place from foot to foot, smiling all the wider as Markus let the seconds tick by. With a sigh, Markus offered his hand, giving a little, “You first,” to which Jonah seemed delighted to hear. 

Using Markus for support, he stepped into the tub, sinking down to his knees in the blue water, and tugging at Markus’ hand once he was down to urge Markus ahead. He barely shivered.

He tried to be careful, wary of slipping and landing on Jonah. As fate would have it, once he thought he was safe, his foot slipped over the slick surface of the tub, and he tumbled inside, landing hard on his ass. With a groan, Markus leaned back against the tub until his head rested against the corner—cold bubbly water forgotten.

Jonah leaned forward, worry in his eyes, “You OK?”

He wanted to say that, no, he wasn’t OK—his ass was wet and hurting—but he simply nodded. Jonah smiled then, and he leaned forward, setting his head against Markus’ chest. Without thinking about it, he put his hand over Jo’s head, smoothing the messy brown hair back from his face.

Once the water did not feel so cold, Markus tried moving again. Slowly, he raised a leg out of the water, watching it foam and froth into evil-looking stinging bubbles. His foot came out unscathed, although there were bubbles over his toes and around his ankle, and whatever made the water blue seemed to stick to his skin in a sludgy mess.

Jonah turned to admire the foot. “Can I wash your hair then?” he sounded just as bright and cheery as he had ever since Markus had walked into this mess.

Not that Markus had much of a choice, Jonah scooped up water, and rubbed his palms against Markus’ scalp, digging his fingers between the clumps of hair, and grinning like a cat. Markus tried not to panic about the bubbles.

“Can’t we kiss instead?” his voice came as a little frightened squeak.

Jonah stopped, looking at him as if he couldn’t comprehend what he had just heard before a large smile broke through his face. “OK!”

And that’s the tale of how Markus avoided his doom for a few good minutes. Until Jonah grew breathless, at least.

“Can I put a bubble beard on you?”

“I rather not.”

He pouted.

Markus sighed.

He stared, his lower lip trembling, looking like he was about to burst into tears.

Thinking it second best, Markus scooped up a handful of bubbles and set them against Jo’s chin. The bubbles stuck to his skin after two tries, and the result was a long string of bubbles precariously dangling from Jo’s chin.

The sight made Markus smile. Jo smiled back, leaning towards Markus once more and slathering the soapy beard to his chest. Underwater, something poked at Markus, making him arch a brow at Jo.


	16. Surreal Crying Physics pt1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the game SCP - Containment Breach

It took a while—long days of me simply sitting before the computer screen, frowning at it, taking a whack at the controllers, before Markus seemed to finally take interest in what I was doing. At first he kept his distance, eyeing the screen, cautions. Such measures possibly due because he had heard my own gasps and screams of horror before—maybe even seen my limbs shaking after I gave up the game and slid next to him for comfort.  
  
There had been no spoken consent, no warning on what he was planning or even his curiosity if not for more of a passing comment or question regarding what I was doing—one day he was simply there—his warm presence a comfort, sitting some ways behind, holding his breath with every cheap scare, frowning, but not speaking from where he stood or sat.  
  
“What are you playing?” he spoke up after a few minutes of staring at the screen.  
  
“SCP Containment Breach,” I barely turned to look behind me.  
  
He remained quiet for a few moments, “Is that the new shirt you got?”  
  
I paused the game, turned to look at him, and flashed him a grin, “Yeah.”  
  
He grunted to show that he heard, and I turned towards the game again, about to click off the pause, when he spoke again: “What’s it about?”  
  
I hid my grin by turning my gaze by at the screen. “I’ll start over so you can see it. It’s kinda hard to explain.”  
  
“Wait,” he stood from the chair, dragged it from its position on the corner of the room to set it next to mine. I scooted over so he could see the screen easier, and grinned at him when he sat down. I got him now, was all I could think, and for a moment I couldn’t wipe the stupid smirk from my face.  
  
If Markus could tell how pleased I was, he didn’t show it. Ignoring the grin and turning to look back at the screen with a nod, indicating I was free to start the game.  
  
So I did, discarding the old save file, and going back to the main menu—a simple black screen with white letters that read ‘SCP’ followed by the round logo with three arrows pointed inwards and the words “Containment Breach” under it, under that, the four standard options of any game—New Game, Load Game, Options and Quit. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was a wholly wise idea, before one glance at Markus made up my mind.  
  
We would play.  
  
And with that I clicked the New Game option.  
  
The game was in first person view, starting with the player standing in front of a huge metal door that slowly opened as we sat there. A yellow and white poster to the right of the door proclaimed in all caps SCP-173 and under that Class: Euclid with a picture of what looked like a deformed stuffed doll under the letters. I swerved the view and took a few steps back to reveal two dummy characters dressed in orange suits walking towards the door in less than amazing graphics and a sliding pace that defied all laws of physics. The second floor (a balcony) had a guard pointing a weapon at the workers (the protagonist amongst them). A garbled voice instructed: “Please enter containment chamber.”  
  
Markus sat in rapt attention.  
  
So far so good.  
  
I stepped inside the room, following the two in orange garbs, and hearing the cackle of machinery that meant the door had closed behind me. The room I was in was wide and spacey, featuring drains on the floor with puddles of old bloodstains and rust near them. On the far left corner was the misshapen doll, the size of a man, it stood on the corner, staring at the wall, two round fists curled before its chest, and a misshapen large head bowed slightly down.  
  
“Please approach SCP-173 for testing,” the same garbled voice instructed.  
  
I stepped in line with the other two companions, pausing there when there was another cackle of machinery and the door behind me opened once more.  
  
“There seems to be a problem with the door control system, uh, the door isn’t responding to any of our attempts to close it, so please maintain direct eye contact with the SCP-173 and wait for further instructions.”  
  
Markus said something under his breath that might have been a sarcastic “Of course.”  
  
At that precise moment the lights blinked out, turning the screen dark for a few seconds, the background music picked up to an electronic screech, and the lights went from completely out to slightly dimmed and flashed on. I swerved around to see an orange garbed NPC thrown on the floor by the door, and the doll monster looming over the remaining NPC. The lights flashed out again, Markus gasped, and when they came back the other NPC had been thrown across the room, the SCP stood in the middle, revealing what looked like two black holes for eyes on a blood-red stained flat face.  
  
By that point I sprinted around the doll-monster, keeping it in my line of sight, and walking backwards through the open door, where it stood staring at my retreat. I backed up until I hit the far wall, and then the screen went black once more.  
  
This time the distant sound of gunfire could be heard, and the lights did not return completely. They were dimmed out, and the room was not only dark, but made it difficult to make out any details—with the corners blurring out into darkness.  
  
I ignored the bodies and gingerly stepped away from that door, turning in wide arcs to look behind me as I made my way towards the closed doors to the right. I pushed the red button to the side of it, and the door slid open to reveal a dark hallway with two open doors leading to separate rooms.  
  
As I stepped outside, an alarm blared, and a voice declared that there had a containment breach on the lower levels of the building. By that point Markus stood pressed back to his seat, eyes wide yet transfixed on the screen.  
  
I scrambled into the closest of the rooms and retrieved batteries and a gas mask from the metal shelves, ignoring the piece of papers by the side of it. I thought Markus would say something, but he remained silent, observing carefully what I did. I exited that room, and darted towards the next. Markus seemed to regain his voice at this point, because he interrupted: “Why does the screen keep flashing black?”  
  
“He blinks,” I explained, “see that meter on the side of the screen with the eye icon? When that wears off, he’ll blink.”  
  
Markus nodded, and the sound of gunfire picked up once more in the game.  
  
I moved towards the door at the end of the hallway, pushed the red button to open it, and paused when it opened up to dark metal corridor. The hesitation didn’t last long; I pushed on towards the end of the hallway, pressed the red button, and walked through the newly opened door. This time the door opened to a metal catwalk—set to the floor were gas leaks that shot up thick black gas. I switched on the item menu, and put on the gas mask. The screen was flecked with black and brown dots of dirt, but otherwise not much changed.  
  
I clattered down the catwalk and picked a direction at random, swerving towards the door, pushing the button open and scrambling inside to reveal yet another hallway. Before the player stood a screen shoved into the corner of the wall that crackled—it displayed a red tinged room, and, inside, the SCP stood, waiting.  
  
“Turn away,” Markus suggestion sounded more like a warning, but I ignored it.  
  
“There’s no other way,” I explained, and darted towards the hallway, turning left towards the door that stood there, opening it to show the red tinged room—the entrance obscured by the black gas. I scrambled inside, moving the screen in wide arcs to sweep the room in search of the SPC—and there it stood, before the exiting door, halfway obscured by the black gas.  
  
I tried to side step around it, and at that point, the camera went black when the protagonist blinked. Markus gasped as the doll monster flashed just in front of the screen. I stepped around it, trying to keep it in my line of sight, and walking backwards towards the door, gingerly moving towards the red button to push it close.  
  
“If you look away from it, it moves,” the words were low with an undertone of annoyance. I couldn’t help but smile—Markus was already getting exasperated by the game.  
  
“Yeah—and that’s just that first little guy. There’s worse.”  
  
His expression was grim, but since he wasn’t moving from the chair, I took it as encouragement to carry on.  
  
This hallway was pretty much the same as the others—lights flickered overhead and the hallway split in two. The screen went black as the character blinked, and the sound of the door hissing open echoed behind us.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
I turned the screen around and went back to the door to see that it was indeed open—the SCP stood before it, looming ominously over the black smoke.  
  
“Close it,” the words were a hiss.  
  
I pressed the red button again and the doors closed smoothly. At that point the character blinked, and the doors were once again open—the SCP ready and waiting.  
  
“Close it and run?” Markus sounded tense.  
  
But he had a very good idea, so I did what he asked. I pushed the red button to close the door and turned away, not even stopping to consider what I was doing—just ran for the closest door, turning around to close it behind me just as the SCP opened the red room’s door with its little round fists.  
  
Unsurprisingly, the room opened into another catwalk. My heart was still in my throat from the encounter with the SCP and its discovery that it could open doors, so I picked a direction at random, darting across the black smoke and barely breathing until I reached another door, pushing at the red button and scrambling inside. Thankfully, there was no SCP awaiting us, and the sight before us was welcoming. This was another of those well illuminated hallways—splitting into two separate ones. Eenie, meenie, minie, mo, decided I should take the right hand, so I darted inside that door, making sure to close it behind me.  
  
“Don’t do that again,” Markus suggested.  
  
Startled, I look over at him—seeing that he was flat against the seat, his hands gripping the armrests with enough force to become a concern for the seat’s safety. “Do what?”  
  
“Twitching the screen around like that—pay attention to the game!”  
  
Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from him and back to the game. We were on a wide open room with desks and computers shoved in neat lines parallel to the walls. The room was dark and dank when compared to the previously bright hallway—the equipment looked almost rusted.  
  
“I was just trying to decide what direction to pick,” I grumbled.  
  
“Right,” he said, “always right.”  
  
From his tone of voice, there was no arguing his reasoning that right always was the safest direction to pick, but since there was no SCP in the room this time, I didn’t argue. I moved the character and set to explore the various assortments of computers, riffling through the desks in search of anything useful. To my disappointment, nothing but papers were to be found. After another cursory glance through the room, I headed towards the other door and pushed the red button to open it.  
  
Another catwalk—same as the other—the smoke rose up thick directly in front of us this time, so it was impossible to make out what was waiting for us. I took a deep breath, allowing the character to blink, and marched forward.  
  
There seemed to be nothing around to my relief. I clanked down the catwalk, turned around the corner to dodge the little inaccessible office that stood in the middle, and turned right to—hello.  
  
Hello.  
  
Hi.  
  
Shit.  
  
The SCP stood waiting directly in front of us. Its little fists clenched before its head, and this time, I didn’t need Markus’ hiss to have me turning around and scrambling towards the closest available door. The music picked up and a screech of a sound went up, making me and Markus jump in unison. When I turned around the SCP loomed before us—impossibly tall and close enough so that’s its misshapen flat face occupied most of the screen. I gave a little piggy squeal of fright.


	17. Surreal Crying Physics pt2

Markus hissed something and I could’ve smacked him over the head until my knuckles bled if I wasn’t too busy wondering what I did wrong in life to deserve this. I started walking backwards until the character’s back brushed against the door, and turned around to push the button open. I turned back as soon as the door slid open and there was the SCP, closer than ever and seeming to want to eat my family. I scrambled back again, begging that there was no mysterious cliff that I wasn’t aware of just behind the character and frantically pushed my computer’s keys until the door closed.  
  
The room the door had opened to was a crooked hallway—it lead straight to the right then bended to the left with no indication that some midget sized rapists lurked in the dark corners.   
  
I headed down the hallway, the character blinked, and there was the sound of the door opening behind me.  
  
“Fuck,” Markus didn’t sound pleased.  
  
“It wants to eat my family,” I whined, having no better idea of what I could say.  
  
“It can have Dorian.”  
  
For once, I couldn’t come up with anything to say to that, so I walked towards the door, and closed the door on the SCP’s face. Of course, the character decided it was a good idea to blink and—hi.  
  
Hi.  
  
How’re you?  
  
Scared shitless. You?  
  
I’ve had a pleasant day.  
  
Great.  
  
Great.  
  
If I could’ve slammed the door on its face I would’ve. Instead I just had the satisfaction of the door hissing closed on its face. Close enough.   
  
“Move,” I didn’t have to be told twice.  
  
I darted down the hallway, full speed ahead, trying to concentrate on pressing the right keys as the sound of the door opening again echoed behind me. I turned around to see the SCP standing in the middle of the hallway under the flickering lights, then rushed into the open door and closed it behind me.  
  
I breathed a sigh of relief and turned around to see a long dark hallway. There was inky black darkness on both walls, slowly spreading and opening.  
  
“Fuck no,” I said under my breath, and then for emphasis: “Fuck no.”  
  
I broke into a run, and I felt Markus’ eyes drilling into the back of my head, but I had no time for explanations. As I darted ahead something black and vaguely human shaped darted from one end of the inky black darkness towards the other on the opposite wall. Markus gasped and pressed himself back on the chair again. At least he understood.  
  
And just as I feared the hallway opened up into a series of sewers.  
  
I picked directions at random, only at the last minute remembering Markus wanted me to pick “always the right,” but it was already too late. My teeth dug into my bottom lip hard enough to leave permanent marks as I steered the character through seemingly random directions, twirling and spinning the screen so fast, the walls blurred before my eyes. I stopped only long enough to push the stupid red button open, dart inside, and not even bother to close the door behind me.  
  
“Close it,” Markus hissed.  
  
I turned around—  
  
Hi.  
  
Hello.  
  
Please leave.  
  
As we watched, the black figure walked through the closed door. Up close it was even worse. Its body was inky black with the wiry muscles of a man toned to smoothness—its face sported pale eyes wide open so that they looked as if they bulged from his skull, his teeth were bared in a horrible smirk that made me gasp. In short: it looked way freaky.  
  
The character blinked and the thing didn’t even hesitate in its slow steady pace. Not a care in the world, that one.  
  
Way freaky.  
  
“Fuck the door—move!”  
  
At least Markus did not need any form of explanation to know this was an SCP—one of the worse ones to be exact. I turned around not even caring about the blink meter anymore and bolted towards the nearest door. I didn’t pay attention to the hallway—merely darted in the right direction, and opened the door, this time another catwalk. I sped ahead; trying to glance around to make sure 173 wasn’t around and headed towards the nearest door.  
  
I didn’t bother to close this one either—the music’s tempo picked up fast enough to make my heart slam against my ribs. I was sure the creepy little guy was just behind me. I turned directions around wildly, spinning the screen left and right; trying to make sure both the SCPs were far away from me. Markus had been shocked into muteness, and I couldn’t even be bothered to care. I spun into another hallway and threw myself at the bright lights, running around in a mindless frantic rhythm that soon made me lose my way. I stumbled into another hallway that seemed to merge into a catwalk, and spun around only to—  
  
Oh, fuck you.  
  
Sideways.  
  
With a chainsaw.  
  
It was another red room—SCP-173 stood inside, waiting for me. The screen crackled and images of torn and bloody bodies flashed across the screen. I turned to look away with little choice and marched inside the room—it was either the misshapen doll with a blinking fetish or the little black grinning midget with the bulging eyeballs. I’d rather be fucked by the doll than the other’s cold twitchy hands.  
  
So SCP-173 it was.  
  
Not that there was much of a choice.  
  
I slammed into the door to the red room, frantically twisting the screen to catch sight of the SCP. This time it stood over the cloud of black smoke, and I had to shift uncomfortably close to him and run the fuck out before it could get me. I didn’t even have time to close the door. The character blinked and suddenly the SCP was right in front of me—so like any brave soul I turned around and ran the fuck out.  
  
But it turned out that there was no button on the opposite door. I tried to dodge the SCP frantically, barely noticing how hard I was breathing, how my hands sweated over the keys and how Markus seemed to have swallowed his tongue in the process. I spun around to the break in the hallway that was tinted in red light and right there—right there—was the fucking button to the door. I was so relieved I could have wept, but there was little time to react. I threw myself at the stupid button, pressed it, and out I went, frantically trying to dodge the SCP when the screen blinked again and it flashed right back to my side. Markus made a low noise in his throat like an agonizing walrus.  
  
I didn’t blame him—I didn’t know how I wasn’t screaming my lungs out right now. Or maybe I was, but was so focused I didn’t notice.  
  
I spun around the SCP and threw myself at the now open door. I didn’t even bother looking behind me to see if it could be closed—the previous experience had taught me that you couldn’t even trust the fucking buttons to be next to the door. Guess there goes my neat plan of always closing the doors behind me.  
  
This door opened into another of those dark metal corridors, and I knew—I just knew—it’d open into a catwalk, so I was expecting to barrel through the black smoke at a frantic breathless pace. The game’s music kept picking up whenever I blinked, so I knew for a fact SCP-173 was dead on my tail. I almost wanted to turn around and check, but I doubted Markus would appreciate the valiant effort.  
  
The button to the door was coming up, however, and I had little choice but to spin around to see that, yes. There was SCP-173.  
  
Hello.  
  
Hi.  
  
Go away.  
  
To my luck, it didn’t listen. At that precise moment the character blinked and just like that—crack! The screen flashed back on and the view tilted, dropping to the floor to glimpse a view of the SCP-173, standing over me before the camera slowly faded out to darkness.  
  
Markus and I stayed in silence for what seemed like a long time—trying to calm down our breathing and our frantically beating hearts. At first none of us even thought of speaking—only staring in blank stupid horror at the menu in the screen and wondering from what vicious hell this game crawled out of. Then, Markus grip relaxed on the armrests and he blinked once or twice to clear his vision, and the tremors in my hands lessened.  
  
“What the fuck was that?”  
  
“It cracked my neck and killed me. Do we play again?”  
  
“No.”  
  
No?  
  
I turned to look at him then, noting that he still looked a tad shaken. His hold had relaxed on the chair, and he had pushed himself forward instead of sitting with his back flat against the seat, but the usual neutral mask he wore had been shattered—his eyes still had that scared apprehensive look, and his jaw was clenched tight.  
  
“It wasn’t that bad.”  
  
“You were screaming and gasping.”  
  
“I was not.”  
  
He didn’t even bother answering—simply snorted at me.  
  
“We seriously not trying again?” hey, can’t hurt to try, right?  
  
“Yes. We’re not playing.”  
  
Damn.  
  
My gaze dropped to my keyboard, and I glumly pecked at the keys, doing nothing more than feeling their smooth surface with my fingertips, waiting for Markus to calm down enough to be reasonable. I had no illusions that we would be playing the game anytime soon—Markus’ body language spoke miles of very good reasons why he would outright refuse—but his eyes had that quietly stubborn look to them that meant any fun activity at all would be cancelled until further notice. I could see the “Be Back Soon” sign coming up behind his eyes. I wanted very much to prevent it, but I never really developed the skills or the tact to stop it.  
  
A sudden idea sparked in my mind, and I pushed myself back on my seat. The wheels of the chair skidded against the floor and stopped when I jammed a foot unto the floor. I stood and grinned down at Markus, who was eyeing me carefully—flattening himself against the seat once again.  
  
I wanted to explain to him that as far as I knew, I wasn’t SCP-173 and wasn’t about to crack his neck, but since he didn’t start pushing himself farther back against the seat’s plush back, I dismissed it.  
  
Carefully, a slid onto his lap, putting a knee on either side of him and wrapping my arms around his shoulders, trying to plaster a comforting smile on my lips. The fact that he didn’t shove me off was encouraging, so I allowed my head to rest on his chest—listening to the sound of his breathing and the beating of his heart—closing my eyes, hoping that somehow my touch was enough to calm him.   
  
A guy can dream.  
  
The seconds trickled by and he didn’t move, however. He did not wrap his arms around me or even rested his chin against the top of my head. Markus simply sat there, eyes fixed at nothing in particular, his breathing slow and even despite his hammering heart.  
  
I lifted my head, trying to meet his wary brown eyes.   
  
“Markus?”  
  
It took a moment for him to answer: “Hmm?”  
  
“You alright?”  
  
No answer.  
  
“Markus?” a hesitation, “Was it really that bad? I mean, it was pretty freaky but...”  
  
He looked away, his eyes fixed on something on the floor—I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, and I didn’t really think craning my head around to search for whatever his eyes were fixed at was a good idea. So I tried to remain patient, searching his face and waiting for his reaction—trying to keep the gentle comforting smile.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I tried again, leaning forward to nuzzle his neck, “can I do anything to make it up?”  
  
Again, he didn’t answer. His eyes were still fixed at a point away from me.  
  
I persisted, however, lifting myself to press my lips lightly against his. He didn’t really respond, but I decided it was safer to take baby steps—at least now his brown eyes were fixed on my face. I tried for another small smile.  
  
“You want to lie down?” Markus’ solution to everything was a nap.  
  
At first he didn’t respond, but then his arms wrapped around the small of my back in a small fleeting hug, and he gave a single stiff nod.  
  
I flashed a grin, and eased away from his lap, my fingers curling and tugging at his wrists—essentially forcing him to hurry his movements and stand. Markus didn’t exactly resist, but there was not much cooperation from his part either. He stood at his own pace—leaving me to tug at his wrists uselessly a few times before he was on his feet. I was forced to tug him all the way to the bed as well, his movements sluggish, his limbs heavy, but at least he allowed me to lead him, and he lay down on the bed when I scrambled away from the corner.  
  
He lay down and fixed his eyes on the ceiling, tracing the little whorls and shapes with his eyes, his breathing slow and even. Carefully, I eased to his side, trying not to jostle his position. I allowed my cheek to rest on the fabric of his shirt and, at first, it seemed like he wouldn’t respond. His eyes were distant; his thoughts wandering. As the seconds trickled by I felt my anxiousness spiking—my stomach turned, I closed my eyes shut and tried not to think about the uneasy silence.  
  
Then he wrapped his arms around me, shifting on the bed to rest his head on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me tight. He didn’t say a word, merely clutched at me, and I knew that was more than enough. I held him back, smoothing his hair back, trying to soothe with my touch when words failed me.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I said.  
  
“Just stay a while,” he said softly.  
  
“I won’t leave you,” I assured him, feeling him relax in my arms.  
  
“Good,” the words were muffled; his arms wrapped tighter around me, digging his nose unto my chest.  
  
“I’ll never leave you.”


	18. Rubber Duckies

It was the feeling of being roused awake by an outside force that startled Markus. It was too sudden, too jarring, to one moment be deep in sleep, and the next feeling almost painfully wide awake. His brown eyes searched the darkened room for signs of anything foreign held within, growing tenser with every passing moment of silence, trying to keep his breathing slow and even, trying not to betray his sudden spike of nerves.

Jonah was pressed against his back, he could feel the warm breath tickling the back of his neck, his arms wrapped right around Markus’ torso. It was odd, however, he felt almost strangled in Jonah’s grasp—he would have expected it to be loose as Jonah relaxed into sleep, not _this_ harsh, the fingers curled into claws. Jo’s breath was also too harsh and sudden, little choked gasps at his ear, not the easy deep breaths of someone resting.

Markus’ initial reaction was a brief tide of rising panic. He almost shifted, his mind already thumbing through a thousand scenarios of what could be disturbing his lover. What he would do, he did not know, but he knew he would try to _fix_ it.

Then he noticed how the band of his boxers was pushed low over his hips, resting over his thighs, the clothing restricting his movements, how Jonah seemed to press tighter against his back, a little groan escaping his lips.

_Ah_, there was something more than Jonah’s stomach rubbing against him. He could feel the tip of Jonah’s dick skimming against his lower back, distinguish Jonah’s tiny groans more clearly. Markus allowed himself to relax on Jonah’s grasp then, eyes half-closed, trying to carefully register what Jonah did, but refusing to move. He wouldn’t interrupt Jo. The thought brought a little smile to his lips.

His lover’s arms relaxed around him, the grip shifting slightly, possibly because Jonah realized the strength he was using to hold Markus’ presumably resting body in place. His breath, hot and moist, still tickled Markus’ neck, and he could feel the lips pressing on the back of his shoulder briefly. Jonah shifted against in bed, and pressed himself against Markus once more, using slow dragging movements to rub his hips against Markus.

Another of those tiny groans, and his lips were pressed against Markus’ skin once more, his movements jerkier, faster, grinding against Markus’ ass, his lower back, pressing himself tighter against Markus. He seemed to notice he was moving much too fast and could rouse Markus awake, because his movements suddenly slowed. Jonah shifted again, then pressed himself against Markus once more, trying to go for slow grinding movements that made little moans slip past his lips.

Jonah’s breathing picked up, his movements grew jerkier, and Markus felt Jonah’s teeth lightly pressing against his shoulder. He moaned against Markus’ skin, his hands gripping Markus’ forearm, fingers tight. He thrust against Markus’ back once, twice, thrice, then a little gasp burst from his throat, and Markus felt the warmth of Jonah’s cum spread across his lower back and ass.

When the orgasm passed Jonah’s grip on Markus’ forearm relaxed—he almost seemed to deflate. Jonah’s arm was thrown carelessly over Markus’ waist, his labored breathing calming until he stopped heaving in greedy breaths.

Once his breathing had calmed, Jonah shifted away from Markus, sitting up in bed with a sigh. It was then that he noticed Markus’ breathing pattern had changed, that his eyes were open.

“D-Did I wake you?”

Markus blinked, not moving from where he lay. He nodded against the pillow, adding a soft: “It’s alright.”

He could practically see Jo blushing in the darkness, “No, ah, I’m sorry I just... I really didn’t... I mean I know it’s no excuse but I...”

Markus turned to face Jonah then, briefly feeling like he was only worsening the mess but refraining to pay it any mind. “It’s alright,” he said with a smile, “I don’t mind.”

“But I... I didn’t... I’m sorry, Markus. It wasn’t—I wasn’t—it’s alright if you’re angry with me—”

“But I’m not,” he tried again, words soft, “It’s quite alright, Jonah, really.”

He could sense the rather than see the skeptical doubt in Jonah’s eyes. He dragged his feet to the bed, bringing his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin against his knees. He sighed again, looking everywhere but at Markus.

Markus pushed himself up to his elbows, sliding towards Jonah, and wrapping his arms around Jonah’s waist, trying to drag his lover close, gently nuzzling his side, lips skimming along Jonah’s warm flesh.

An involuntary shiver shook Jonah’s spine, and his wide brown eyes fixed on Markus, cheeks aflame.

“I, ah, I just _wanted_ you, but you looked so tired I didn’t want to wake you up... I didn’t _mean_ to, and I’m sorry for that.”

Markus responding chuckle was low in his throat, “Stop pouting and I’ll consider us even.”

A tiny smile quirked upwards the corners of Jonah’s lips then, “You sure?”

Markus pressed himself closer against Jonah, getting Jonah to move the arm from his knee and letting it rest on Markus’ shoulder. “I am.”

Jonah’s resistance crumbled then, and he slid down lower over on the bed until he was resting in the circle of Markus’ arm, nuzzling his shoulder, eyes half-closed. “You should get that cleaned.”

“No,” Markus purred, “leave it like that. You can clean me up in the morning.”

He could feel Jonah’s responding grin against his skin, “I think I’ll take you up on that.”


	19. Surprises

He writhed underneath me, giggling when I pressed my lips against his skin. Countless times, he had pushed me gently away with a small “that tickles,” but I always pulled back, and he’d be more than eager to welcome me back to his embrace.

His smell was familiar to me now—something I’d never thought I’d have. I no longer felt disoriented when I woke with him on my side, his sheets under me, his smell clogging my nose. It felt different now—soft, secure, welcoming. It felt like home.

As I trailed open-mouth kisses and licks along his flesh, I came to realize that Jo was almost too patient and accepting with me. He was eager to please, and although he asked things of me, he never made it to push his ideas or desire on me.

Last night’s conversation ran through my head...

I moved lower, tracing circles along his skin, my fingers skimming against his ribs, and a trail of kisses falling lower across his stomach. I sucked and licked at the flesh, trailing lower towards his abdomen. Jo gasped and squealed under my touch, trashing underneath me, and changing between trying to push me away, and trying to pull me to him. I smiled against his skin, and he complained of tickles once again.

I pushed my fingers under the hem of his jeans, tugging at them to hint him of my intentions. With a grunt, he planted his feet on the mattress to either side of me, and pushed his hips up. I quickly released the button of his jeans, slid down the zipper, and pushed them lower along his hips. With Jo wiggling, and my tugging, we managed to get them lower over his thighs, taking the underwear along with them to reveal—

He wasn’t hard yet, but I knew that wouldn’t last. I trailed my fingers along him, grasping his member and planting kisses along his thighs.

“Markus,” my name was a groan on his lips. Gently, he wrapped his fingers around my head, tugging at the hairs upwards, clearly wanting some attention up there.

I smiled, but protested against his little tugs, instead trailing a lick along his dick.

He gasped, pressing his back against the bed, his legs growing tense to either side of me. When he spoke, his voice came as a hoarse squeak. “M-Markus?”

I did not reply. I trailed another lick, smiling when he gasped once more. I wrapped my hand around his member, giving little tugs, and pressing my lips against the inside of his thighs and the sides of his length. He gave little jerks against my grip on him, groaning softly against his breath.

Once he was stiff under my grasp, I gave him another lick, trying to pay careful attention around his tip, using my hand to keep the rest of him entertained. He squeaked as I sucked at him, shoving his hand into his mouth and moaning into the flesh of his wrist. He trashed against me, a hand lashing out to grasp at the bed sheets and wring them against his fist.

When I started moving, bobbing my head up and down on him, he actually shrieked. A little surprise squeaked shriek that slipped from his lips before he grabbed my pillow and held it against his face. More muffled squeaking ensued, and I had to take his dick from my mouth as to avoid choking on it. Instead, I tried kissing his abdomen and thighs again, trying not to laugh as he punched the mattress and bit into the pillow.

Once he calmed, I took him into my mouth again, sliding low over his length, until I felt him near the back of my throat. I pulled him out again then, trying to keep the same even, slow pace, and dragging my tongue along the bottom of his length.

His hips jerked against me, and a low moan slipped from his throat.

That was when Dorian opened the door.

I wasn’t sure if he had been standing there for some time, or it if was simply coincidence, but his eyes grew wide when he caught sight of Jo, laying against the bed sheets with his pants around his ankles, his face flushed red, his eyes glassy, and me between his legs, his dick in my mouth.

His mouth fell open, and I tried not to choke on Jo once again. Since Jonah didn’t notice, I continued my work—licking and moving against his length, hands working at him. Jonah moaned, threw his head to the side and that’s when he finally noticed Dorian.

He tried to speak to his cousin, but he broke into a loud, mildly embarrassing moan, and his hands flashed to my head. He grasped my head, fingers curling lightly around my hair, and I quickened my pace. His muscles bunched underneath my touch, his moan picked up in pitch. I struggled to keep the same pace, sensing Dorian glaring holes along the side of my face.

Jonah squealed when he came—and his hot cum filled my mouth. Not a warning that one—not that I honestly expected one. Trying not to gag at the sudden viscous liquid in my mouth, I let his dick slip from my mouth, marveling at the delicate strings of saliva that still clung to my lips.

When I looked up at Dorian, his face was red and flushed. He looked both awed and flustered, but he glared as soon as he noticed me looking.

I flashed a crooked grin.

He slammed the door shut, cursing under his breath as he went.

“W-what’s wrong?” Jonah’s voice sounded excited and disoriented. No surprise there


	20. Memories

“The memory’s full.”

Markus looked up from the glossy pages of the comic book and was startled to be looking directly into Jonah’s eyes. He blinked, mouth opening slightly before he noticed the cell phone clutched loosely on Jonah’s hands.

“The cell phone,” he tried again, holding it up so Markus could see.

“Were you downloading a game...?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Jonah turned the cell phone around so Markus could see the screen—a picture was displayed there, one that made his cheeks turn red.

“I don’t know what to delete,” Jo explained calmly, turning the cell phone so its screen would hover before his eyes.

“Ah—did you—?”

“All that’s left is you,” he frowned at the screen, clicking through the pictures and frowning even more. After a few breaths, he sighed.

“You can—”

“Print them out, yes,” a grin flashed across his features, “great idea!”

\--------------------------

I should’ve expected seeing Jo bare naked sitting Indian style with a boner sticking from between his legs, but I really didn’t. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant surprise, but I wasn’t sure what it could mean either.

Jo held the phone to his face, eyes fixed on the screen, hand giving his excited member little tugs. He did not look up from the screen as I walked in—I didn’t think he even heard me.

“What d'ya have there?” I peered at him, half-trying not to intrude, half-curious what would make him choose against rubbing himself against me as he’d often do.

He looked surprise to see me there, but before long a grin appeared on his lips, and he turned the phone for my viewing pleasure.

It was a profile view picture, from the hips down, so you could see the bones that formed the hip, the swell of the ass, and a very erect dick sticking out from between his legs. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that dick as my own. Or even a special person—I was sure everyone and their mother had seen me naked.

Although Markus with a boner was a rare sight.

“When did you take that?”

Jo grinned, wiggling his toes, “Just the other day—I like how you look here.”

I shook my head, bending at the waist to place a peck on his lips before wandering on to the kitchen. I’d worry about my lover when I had enough juice in my stomach to deal with his shenanigans.

\--------------------------

“It’s gone.”

I looked up from the TV’s screen, unsurprised to see Jonah standing just besides the sofa, holding his cell phone between his hands, eyes wide.

“What’s gone?”

“The memory chip.”

“The cell phone’s...?”

“Yes.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, while we both drunk in that thought. What was in the memory chip? Numbers, maybe a few text messages he saved, pictures...

_Pictures. _

“Dorian,” I said immediately, causing Jo to scowl.

“I asked already,” a hand moved to his hip, the scowl darkened, “he swears he didn’t touch a thing, and even if he did, he’d be smart enough to put it back in the phone.”

I frowned, chewed over that thought. I wasn’t very convinced—Dorian might as easily lie, but Jonah did have a point.

“Someone was around snooping and taking our shit.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Jo, we’re always _inside_.”

Jonah frowned, unconvinced. He seemed about ready to protest, but finally he shrugged. He didn’t mention the cell phone again, but skulked into the room, rummaged around for a while then came back to sit by my side in the sofa.


	21. Not Pee

I would have never told him out loud, but Jo sure looked cute when he was flustered.

Even when such a state made him buy ten gallons of juices we would never drink.

Which was why, when the blush crept from his cheeks to his ears, I had to wriggle towards him and wrap my arms around him. He squeaked as he always did whenever I touched him, writhing in my arms and giving little annoyed _meeps_ when I pressed my lips against the side of his throat. When he continued writhing, I propped my chin against his shoulder, eyes half-closed.

“Why do you always do this?” Jo wailed, hands grasping for the bed sheets to drag himself closer to the edge.

“Mmm, I wonder.”

He did not immediately reply. He scowled—a cute little scowl that made him look like a furious kitten, then tried to kick back at me with his legs.

He, of course, missed, and before he had a chance to recover, I wrapped my legs lower around his own, pinning them in place.

“Mar_kus_,” he hissed.

My little furious kitten.

“M_aar_kus!” he wailed, “let _goo_.”

When I refused he sighed, slumping against my arms with a groan.

“I’ll get out when you fall asleep,” he warned.

“You can try,” I told him, nuzzling his shoulder and neck, enjoying his little Jo smell.

“You’ll squish me to death.”

“Nah.”

“What if I need to pee?”

“Pee on me.”

When Jo realized I wouldn’t let go for any reason, he groaned.

“Markus, I finally did it!”

The jovial words were much too sudden and harsh to Markus’ ears. With the back of his hand he rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and blinked once or twice at the slender figure of Jo standing by the foot of the bed. He was clothed in—unsurprisingly—nothing but a long ratty old shirt that he used for sleeping and a pair of fluffy pink socks. Nothing of his outfit, or the way his hair stuck up every which way hinted in the slightest as to what he might have exactly “done” so Markus was forced to ask the obvious question.

“Did what?”

“I peed.”

Markus blinked. Jo only grinned wider.

His first thought was a question he’d rather not even consider, “Where?”

Jonah frowned, considered the words, a slender finger lifting to his lips to rest there (a habit Markus had noticed overtime), then stuck out his lips in a pout, dropping his hand from his face. When Markus still looked clueless, he was finally forced to add: “In the toilet, of course.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you’d like to know.”

For a few seconds, Markus merely stared at Jo, the realization that the conversation was as fruitless as they would come suddenly struck him. With that thought he flopped back down into the pillows with a groan, trying to ignore Jonah’s responding grin.


	22. Breakfast 2

The folded note did not say much, but it was enough to make Markus swallow hard as he read the letters floating before his eyes.

_Don’t blink_.

When he opened the door to go take his morning piss, he was met with a slightly bowed doll—its face a horrible mirage of colors.

Markus nearly pissed himself, but as if that wasn’t enough, when he slammed the door shut and stumbled back to look over the window, there was another note there—

_I made you banana pancakes! Good luck getting to the kitchen._

And even though it was well-deserved (maybe he had done one or two things to incur Jo’s wrath), he could not help but despise his lover that very moment.

\--------------------------

“What’s that?”

Jonah did not even turn around to face him. He walked backwards, glancing over his shoulder, wearing yellow shorts, an orange t-shirt, and white sneakers. He dragged what looked like an enormous cardboard box with him.

An incredibly confusing sight.

“Jo?”

This time, Jonah’s eyes fixed on him, and he offered a smile, but no clear explanation. He turned back before Markus could talk, and gave the box another tug.

With a sigh, Markus stood from his perch—sprawled on the sofa, and turned to stand next to Jonah and the mysterious box. He leaned over, wary not to brush against the box, but curious all the same, and tried repeating the question that had been nagging him ever since Jonah burst through the door.

“What’s in the box?”

Jonah avoided his gaze—glancing towards the kitchen, as he answered.

“Juice.”

\--------------------------

“It’s stiff.”

“Just touch it.”

“I don’t need to _touch _it. It looks stiff enough.”

“Please.”

“It’s _hard_ there’s no testing it.”

“Just a little.”

“I’m not _touching _it.”

“But—”

“Markus, it looks disgusting.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m _not_ touching it Markus, put that away.”

“But Jo—”

“Put it _down_.”

“Just a little.”

“_No._”

“It’s lonely.”

“Good.”

“Jo—”

“_Throw that away_.”

“You’re hurting its feelings.”

“It’s hurting my nose.”

“It wants your touch.”

“Markus.”

“It wants your sweet love.”

“_Markus._”

“It cries for you.”

“_Fine_. Next time, I’ll put the bread where it ‘_belongs_’, happy now?” the words were thrown over his back, frowning at Markus, putting his hands to his hips.

“Extremely,” Markus smiled.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“And throw that away.”

Markus looked at the hard-as-coal lump of bread in his hands—fungus had overtaken it and dotted its surface yellow, black, and a sticky-looking white that left little beads on its surface. Markus had discovered the atrocity pinned behind the kitchen’s counter, following the trail of ants and his nose to discover what looked like a highly developed ecosystem for mucus. Jonah had taken one look at Markus and his nose had wrinkled in contempt.

“It just wants a friend.”

“_Markus_.”

“_Fine_. Next time it’s stiff, I’m letting _you_ take care of it all.”

“Fine.”


	23. Clothes

The fabric hugged the form smoothly—it seemed to fit like a glove almost. It was a soft beige with little baby blue details in the seam, and a little silver zipper and round little button. It was perfect—hugging the flesh and bones, fanning out just enough at the thigh, folding just at the right place and revealing just enough skin to have his mouth wa—

“Does it look OK?”

_Focus_. Markus blinked, tearing his eyes away from Jonah’s hips with difficulty. He blinked once or twice at him, at a loss as to what to say.

Jo stood awkwardly—an arm clutching at the elbow of the opposite, hiding the loose little tee he had picked up upon Markus’ encouragement. The simple white sneakers he had chosen to wear back at the house had been discarded in order to slip on the pants, but he still wore the thick white socks on his feet. His hair hung loosely over his shoulders—the black-and-red locks contrasting sharply against the light blue of the tee. Both halves of a friendship bracelet hung from his left wrist—why exactly Jonah had bought a friendship bracelet for himself was unknown to Markus, but he never got around questioning it.

“You look great,” Markus finally managed to choke out.

Jonah frowned, turned to the mirror once more, and twisted around so he could see his ass reflected on the mirror.

“You sure?” he was frowning at the mirror, tugging at the tee this way and that, “Doesn’t it look a bit... trampy?”

_Now why would that be a problem?_ “No.”

“I mean... I don’t want to be seen—I don’t want you, to, y’know, people stare and I...”

Markus stood from his seat, padding across the carpeted floor the last few steps to close distance between Jo and himself. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around Jonah in a hug, closing his eyes and enjoying the smell of his skin.

“You look _great_.”

Jonah stayed silent, inspecting their reflections in the mirror, looking back at Markus with wide brown eyes. “Are you sure? I could try something else, I mean...”

A hand slid down, cradling his hips, holding him there, before they slid lower, grasping, gently tugging, and a smile touched the corners of Markus’ lips. “Trust me—you look amazing.”


	24. Coffee God

There was a sudden weight on his stomach, the feeling of breath whooshing from his lungs, and suddenly Markus was on his back, gasping like a fish, and trying to suck in breaths. The weight did not relent, and he was forced to push at it with hands in an attempt to be rid of it. When it still persisted, he tried rolling over in the bed. There was a small yelp followed by the thump of something heavy falling on the mattress and a loud—

“_Markus_!”

Markus was wide-eyed and awake now, his breath fast and raspy, his heartbeat accelerated. Disorientation made him grab at the bed sheets and stare at the dark spot where he thought the figure was. It was much too dark to be able to tell—the curtains of the only window in the room were drawn shut, but he thought he could see it hunched over, groaning softly.

“Markus that _huuurt_,” the last word was drawn out into a whine.

“Jonah?”

“Yes,” a small groan.

“What were you doing...?”

“Jumping on the bed.”

“_What?_”

“You _hurt _me.”

His reactions were quick now, Markus moved towards Jonah, prodding where Jonah clutched at his shoulder with gentle fingers, until he was satisfied nothing was amiss. Perhaps a bruise, but with the way Jonah was whining one would have thought he had dislocated his shoulder. Though, Markus couldn’t tell in the darkness, he was sure it was nothing serious. “You’re fine,” Markus breathed in relief.

“I want a water bed.”

“A wate—_what?_”

Jonah sat up now, still rubbing the sore spot on his shoulder with his hand. He drew in a breath, looking away from Markus as he spoke. “I want a waterbed. They’re bouncy.”

“Go to sleep.”

“But, the water bed...”

“Please, Jonah. Go to sleep. And quit drinking that coffee at midnight.”

“That coffee tastes awesome, OK? It’s not even coffee. It’s like God in a cup. I’m drinking God at midnight.”

“No. God can wait ‘till the morning.”

“God in cup-y form does not wait for any man.”

“It’ll wait for you,” Markus said, exasperated, quickly pressing his lips against Jonah’s to quiet any words of protest.

“But it’s God, Markus.”

“Jonah, you’re going to hell.”

“But Markus—”

“Goodnight, Jo.”


	25. Butts and Crocs

There was a sudden weight on my face, pressing the back of my head against the pillows. I tried to protest, but it was impossible to move. I cracked an eye open to see pink fabric, I tried to breathe only to realize that was not the brightest idea.

I tried giving a shriek, only to be muffled by the weight of the fabric and muscle. Regardless, he heard me, it was impossible to miss the vibrations that shook him, and the giggles that drifted from his lips. I tried to shriek again, but this time my breath came short, and I was forced to inhale through fabric and—

I’d rather not think about it.

“I warned ya,” a voice sang.

I tried to angle my face to see if I could bite him. That didn’t turn out very well—my nose was not as flexible as I wished it to be. Not to mention—you don’t realize just how _heavy_ a person can be until they’re sitting on your face.

A muffled groan slipped from my lips, and I felt him shift. He leaned forward, a hand reaching for my hips. I was confused for a moment—the fumes and lack of oxygen surely fogging my mind and making my thoughts sluggish. Then I felt the elastic band being pushed lower over my hips, and more giggles bursting from my assaulter.

_No!_

Just last week, Jo had been watching a dull-looking documentary on crocodiles. As a crocodile rolled over, snapping the neck of a hapless deer-looking animal, I could only think—_imagine if there was a dick in that thing when it started rolling._ The deep manly voice of the narrator had assured its audience that it was a very effective killing mechanism, of which I had no doubt.

And for some reason, all I could think was Jo sat on my face was—

_Asses are close enough to dicks, right?_

So I rolled, I rolled like my life depended on it, and maybe some way while I was free-falling through the air, a sudden thought struck me. One that screamed: _Markus, you’re a moron!_

Or maybe that was Jo screaming that, I could never be quite sure.

And then I slammed to the floor, knocking out whatever oxygen remained in my lungs. I vaguely registered that I landed on something pliable yet hard. Like hardened clay dough.

“Mar_kus_!”

Ah, nothing like your name being passionately yelled at you by your dear lover.

“You _idiot_, get _off_!”

Ah, yes, the lovely musical voice. It simply was ecstatic—my senses buzzed with his lovely voice, my breath quickened, my heartbeat accelerated.

Or maybe I was just out of breath. Who knows?

Finally, I crawled away from Jo, collapsing on the floor next to him. I turned to face him—his hair tousled, his eyes brown and furious, his nostrils flared, his hands clenched. I couldn’t help but grin at the sight.

“What was _that?_”

“Barrel roll.”

“What?”

“You’re lucky your dick wasn’t involved.”

He stared at me, fury hardly abated, but clearly wondering if I had knocked my head against the bed frame while we went down. He blinked at me, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. After giving me a very good impression of a fish, he finally spoke with a little:

“You ripped my underwear,” and maybe there was a bit of a whine in his tone.

I grinned, “Brilliant.”


	26. The Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small flashback

He was enticing, his every move a pleasure to behold—despite his serious and closed expression, I could tell he was not unkind; he was simply worn away, rubbed raw as to expose the sensitive muscles and bones that covered his body. His skin had been forced to grow back scarred and ugly and mismatched.

Or at least that’s what I liked to think. Reading stories about the bitter hero as a child had made my thoughts spark at the mildest suggestion. There was a chance he was only quiet and reserved, but something in his eyes just spoke of some unnamable emotion that bubbled just under his flesh ready to burst at a moment’s notice—

Except it never would. I was sure of that. It wouldn’t burst because he was not the type of person to burst. Maybe sometimes it’d froth and bubble and some of it would spill forth from his lips, but as soon as he noticed he’d bite it back and hold his tongue. No. He would not say what it was.

And I wanted to know. I wanted to know because somehow, in that way, I felt I would have privilege over the rest of them. I wanted to know because I wanted to be the only one, and then, as if bound by a string of fate he would be joined to me, if only simply because of the intimate revelation.

But first, I needed to know his name.

He would have an honorable name, I knew that. I wanted to speculate, but I had no idea what would fit him. Strong, unique, bespoken of someone so serious and fair. His lips looked full and soft, but that had nothing to do with his name—I simply liked them a lot.

He also had nice eyes; brown and warm. I could melt in those eyes, and they reminded me of coffee. I was quite fond of coffee.

Jo, concentrate. His _name_.

I would never have made a good detective. Which was a shame, I was quite fond of those unreal TV detective mysteries. 

How did you ask someone’s name without tripping and accidentally making out with them?

There just wasn’t a way.

Not when it was _him_.

And I didn’t want him to think I was weird. No, I had to be friendly and bright. Pat down or pinch my cheeks and hope for a little color to come to them; I had to look like an enjoyable person. I had to look like someone he would want to be with forever more.

But first I needed his name.

Quite the conundrum.

I had noticed he seemed to respond well to “hey, you,” so much so that for half a second I was convinced he was of Asian descent and his name was Heyu, but that theory was soon discarded. It seemed no one knew his name.

Maybe he was a lost soul; a ghost wandering about the school building, looking for someone to free him of his curse.

The problem with that theory is that then we couldn’t elope under the moonlight once I caressed his soft skin and spoke the magic words that would bring him to me.

He was alive then. If he wasn’t, I’d make it so by sheer force of will.

But before I could do that I needed his _name_.

“Moreno,” a gruff voice called from somewhere behind me. My future husband turned at the sound of it, eyes wide and curious. He did not speak up, but there was a question written in his features. The man walked towards my love, tall and slim with wide-rimmed glasses. I’ve never taken classes with him, but I knew he was a math teacher.

Jo stalker mode activate. 

As discreetly as possible, pretending to shoulder my bag to hurry to lunch, I snuck closer to where my future lover sat, his back pressed against the wall. Just as I stood barely a few feet away from them, I pretended to have gotten a sudden urgent text message and halted by the corner of the hallway, slowing my steps to a crawl and frowning at my phone.

“...test, but you won’t be able to pass the class if you don’t study harder.”

My soul mate didn’t reply, when I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, he looked sullen.

“I want to help, Markus, I do, but if you don’t do your part there just isn’t a way. You’ll fail math, be forced to repeat it next year too. Is that what you want?”

My thoughts screeched to a halt, and I felt the corners of my lips upturn in a smile.

_Markus Moreno._

His name was glorious. A glorious fitting name. I’d be Jonah Moreno and we wouldn’t have any children because we’d be gay. It’d be amazing. I had to plan the wedding—I wonder what flavor of cake Markus would like.

Except he was horrible at math and that was upsetting. Not because he was bad at it; even if my passion was math, I could make it math and doing Markus’ math for him. I’d lovingly write in ink or marker the math problems on his skin and solve them for him so when the tests came he simply had to glance down at his flesh and remember how caring and thoughtful I had been—

And that didn’t make sense.

But, hey, he needed a math tutor and I happened to be good at math. Not even going to try being modest there—I was ridiculously good at math. I could tutor him.

Except I didn’t know my soon-to-be-spouse well enough to comfort him outright, and I didn’t know the math teacher either.

Guess I had some legwork to do. Wishing I had a fancy detective cap, I straightened my invisible tie and headed in the way of the teacher’s lounge. This time, I would not think of Markus’ soft lips and actually concentrate.


	27. Clinical Death

By definition, clinical death is determined when the heart stops beating, thus ceasing the blood flow that would otherwise deliver oxygen throughout your body. It takes about twenty seconds to lose consciousness after cardiac arrest. It takes an average of two minutes before the nerve cells in the cerebral cortex die from lack of oxygen. The brain in its entirety can last as much as eight minutes after the heart has stopped.

_Up to eight minutes._

Imagine then, for just a minute, that your heart stops beating. You’re done. You just have long enough to realize that, yes, the familiar thumping of your heart against your ribs has ceased, that the surge of your blood against your veins has abruptly stopped its course, that as you drag that last painful breath, it shall be wasted, because the vital instrument that would carry those atoms to your cells to nurture them has simply expired.

Then your thoughts start to slip, your vision starts to grow dark, and little spots blossom behind your eyes before you’re deep into that abyss of unconsciousness.

You now have about a minute and a half to come back with a gasp to the life you once lead. After this, the brain cells are starved from oxygen and die. If, by some miracle, something would see you back to life, this miracle has a minute and a half to pull through—after that you have an incredibly high chance of having developed permanent brain damage.

Now these precious seconds are crucial. It is not uncommon to hear of fantastic tales of patients returned to life by the actions of the medical unit in charge of their care. Tales that can move your heart and send shivers up your spine simultaneously. Tales of seeing long-dead relatives welcoming with embracing warmth, caressing hands grasping you and holding you dear to their hearts, friendly words reminding you that your time is not now, and that you must return to the cold reality of the operation table, the soiled sheets, the rainy street, the blood-drenched battlefield. Tales of such elements that they have are almost akin to dreams in their style. Dreams that are so close to death it becomes impossible to fathom how that could have been something other than a glimpse into the afterlife...

Most curious of all is perhaps the fact that these tales can be spun for hours, despite the fact that the puzzled doctor testifies that the patient’s heart had not beat for a little under two minutes.

Ah, but what happens when the miracle does not occur? When the patient does not come back with tales or even words at all—do those see the dream visions as well? Do they see their long-dead relatives, feel the safe warm light, feel at peace with these dying visions that can stretch for seemingly hours?

And what if the person you want to see, the face you would feel most comforted by is not a dearly departed but still alive? What if they’re there, next to your dying body as it gasps and spasms under its last pitiful seconds? What if they’re holding your hand, looking away, focusing on the flat line on the monitor that gives the evidence of cardiac arrest instead of you? What if they were too shocked to notice at all that exact moment where all brain activity expires?

All you know, all that you are aware of, is that those twenty seconds of consciousness are filled with the sight before you: a perfectly familiar face, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, not looking at you, acting as if you’re already dead, as if you’re no longer more than a husk, looking at the machine that could represent your last moments, but would never be it.

I tell myself he’ll look, eventually. That his eyes would turn and would meet mine one last time, and despite the circumstances, that the moment would last for forever. That he would see and understand, and that somehow, it would be right. 

That despite of how the heavy chains around my wrists have rubbed me raw until the skin cracked and bled, that despite the purple bruises that blossom like flowers on my skin, that despite the feeling of betrayal that vibrates like the chord, letting its sound stretch on forever, letting its music be heard. That despite the fact that he was so close and so far away, that he’ll eventually turn his head to face me, that his eyes would meet mine and that when they do they would be open, perfect warm brown eyes that once could claim they loved me.

But now his eyes are closed. He’s out there, feeling guilt, surely. Feeling empty, drained, sad. He’d mourn, I’d expect. What else would there be to do? That place that could only live in dreams does not call to him quite yet; it says it’s not his time. That I should wait, that he would come, that his eyes would open and meet mine.

To wait though? Was that really wise? To hang on to someone in such a way that the rest of your existence depended on it? To live, to die; it did not really matter anymore, just the fact that he would eventually be there once more—his presence, a comfort. His small shy smile creating a mix of pleasant nostalgia and bitter memories that would knock the breath from my lungs—was that really worth it?

A place where seconds could last hours and minutes could last years—how long would it take for him to reach me? Because surely he would sense it, be called towards this place, and turn his head and try to see. But how long? Would I be willing to wait? Did it really matter? Just the thought that he could be here eventually, if I waited long enough, if I allowed myself to continue to bear the weight of these chains he would one day appear and I would feel his arms around me once more, as the wind whispered, as the trees promised. 

And I decided that, yes, it would be worth it. That, yes, I would wait for him.

_I would wait for him._


	28. The Final Investigation

His breath came in a silvery puff of air, coughed and hacked, rasping in his throat. When he lifted his hand to his lips, he was unsurprised to note they came away wet and sticky with blood.

“You don’t have long now.”

He looked up, his eyes deep and tired, crow’s feet tugging at the corners.

“I guess I don’t,” there was only a tone of polite resignation.

“What will you do?”

He did not reply immediately. Instead, he cast his gaze about the room, stopping to inspect the carpet, the fabric of his clothes, the drapes over the windows.

“You said you wanted me to see him?”

“That’s right.”

The man frowned, looking away. A slight tremor shook his hands which he hid by setting his fingers against his knees. When he replied, his tone was bitter.

“His name is Markus?”

“Yes.”

He sighed—another silvery puff of air. Why did he insist on keeping the room so cold?

“Alright, I’ll do as you say.”

\--------------------------

The first thought that struck him once he found Markus was his mournful eyes. As if someone close had been recently deceased—as if every step, every breath, every movement cost him energy he no longer possessed.

His limbs were long and willowy, his stomach flat, his muscles smooth. His face was one that would easily be dismissed in a crowded room—a nose, two eyes, a mouth. Nothing of it seemed to stand out, not an overly large nose, small thin lips, or large round eyes—what struck him were not the features of the face, but the expression on it. The eyelids often sunk low over the eyes so that he thought Markus had fallen asleep on his feet, his breath came so slowly and evenly, it was almost as if he did not feel the cold.

As he watched, Markus lifted a beaten brown bottle to his lips.

What had happened? He had not be warned of this.

As he watched on, Markus stumbled upon a step in front of an abandoned and tattered building. He sat, not caring a wit for the snow beneath him, and let his knees fall to either side so that his legs were splayed. He could not hear from where he stood, but he thought Markus sighed as he leaned back, half-sprawled, half-thrown at the wall behind him. Once he was accommodated, he lifted the bottle to his lips once more.

“He’s looking for death,” he told the air around him, but it did not seem to care.

He was sure of it, however—he did not think Markus meant to last much longer.

\--------------------------

“How was he?”

He was greeted with three words—three words that made him frown. He hesitated at the doorway of the small coffee shop they had decided as their place of meeting, feeling the warm air against his face and hands.

“Sick,” he said, turning towards his right, where immediately next to the door sat the other.

“Sick?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And?”

He hesitated then, debating not saying anything at all. He could walk away now if he wished.

“I don’t think he’ll last beyond the winter.”


	30. Internet Finds

He was hopping from foot to foot, waving his arms in the air as if he were a chicken struggling to become airborne. His eyes were wide, and there was a large, almost insane smile clinging to his lips.

“There’s a banana dildo,” he hummed, still doing his little bunny hops.

“A banana dildo...?”

“On my favorite website!” he said with a smile, leaning towards me. I was overwhelmed by so much Jo—his messy hair sticking around his face in a mop, and his lips so close I could have licked them.

“OK?”

“We need it.”

“We?”

He breathed hard on me—his warm breath on my lips, practically gasping into my face. When I continued to blink obliviously, the grin widened.

“You need a dildo.”

“Jo—”

“Markus,” he leaned closer to me, his forehead against mine—his eyelashes tickling me. “It’s a banana dildo.”

“So you said—”

“It’s yellow and looks like a banana.”

“Yes, I gathe—”

“Don’t you want it?”

“Well,” I stammered, stalling for time.

He suddenly leaned back, pressing his lips on mine.

“We’re getting it!” he declared as he waltzed from my lap and into his room.

The sound of the faucet gushing water reached Markus’ ears in tandem with a familiar high-pitched squeal that could only belong to his regal and elegant lover.

Markus wasn’t exactly sure why he rose from his current seat in the sofa to follow the sounds, but he did. They said curiosity killed the cat, but Markus had yet to learn this crucial lesson.

Innocently, not exactly knowing what he was expecting, he peered through the bathroom’s door, sliding it open to see what hid within.

Jo was bent at the waist over the sink—whose water was running. His chest rested over the sink, and his arms were set to either side to catch his balance. The smooth porcelain was splashed with droplets of water, which made Jo’s hands slip as he scooped water into his chest.

And from his chest hung two large wads of—meat? With dull pink perky nipples. He did not notice Markus, and as Markus watched, he scooped more of the water and rubbed the appendages until frothy white foam covered them.

“What?”

What else could one say in such a situation?

“Markus!” Jo’s eyes were wide—a grin decorated his features and lit up his whole face, even in his ridiculous position. “I’m washing my boobs.”

“Where...?” Markus’ mind struggled to keep up with his eyes, but the conclusion did not seem readily available.

“I got them online,” and it was then and only then that Jo straightened up, hands resting on his hips, and a cocky grin on his lips. “They feel real and everything, don’t you like them?”

Markus wasn’t sure what to reply or think. He shouldn’t really be surprised, considering this was Jo, but he had to draw the line some_where_. Sadly, he didn’t think this was it.

“Keep ‘em,” he said, turning away from Jo to go back to the living room and his favorite perch on the sofa.

“Have you ever wondered what would happen if your nipples were replaced with dicks?”

I wasn’t sure how I expected that sentence to end, but it still caught me off-guard to say the least. 

I pushed myself up on my elbows to peer at Jo—his brown eyes were huge and curious.

I tried to tell myself it was just part of his charm, but it was an uphill struggle.

“I can’t say I have, no.”

He stared at me for a few breaths, and eventually I flopped back to bed, thinking that maybe this was all over now.

Except, I was wrong. Jo wriggled towards me, clutching at my arm, and burrowing his head on the side of my neck, breathing heavily.

“I have,” he gasped.

It almost sounded like a threat.


	31. Sheet Forts

Jo had this habit of either leaving me either pleasantly surprised or completely and utterly baffled.

More so the latter than the former.

I really should’ve expected to be woken up to a racket and a loud yelp that pushed my heart to my throat, and made lungs constrict instead of breathing, but I really didn’t. So, I awoke with a start, sitting up on bed fast enough to give me whiplash, and black dots to swim in front of my eyes.

Before my brain had quite caught up to my body, I was already scrambling to my feet, taking quick steps towards the door and prying it open, not knowing what to expect, only knowing the yelp had been Jo’s.

And as I veered into the kitchen, I was forced to abruptly stop.

Jo stood in the middle of the living room, naked as the day he was born with one of Dorian’s shirts wrapped around his clenched fist. The sofa had been upturned, and this was what he had chosen as his perch. Around the room were discarded piles of clothes of all varieties and colors. There were also some assorted candy and chip wrappers, cereal boxes, and a crumpled can.

As I watched, Jo carefully turned himself towards me, and that was when I noticed the stack of math books balanced atop his head.

I blinked at him, feeling horror thrumming through my veins.

“The clothes upset my balance,” Jo said as if that explained everything, then slowly started to walk towards me, wobbling in place as the books threatened to tip over.

“OK,” I said with a nod—no use fighting Jo. He would not even consider an argument—whatever he was doing would make sense to him. “I’m going to pee.”

Jo grinned then, nearly tipping the books over. “Can I watch?”

I stared, and that was when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. When I turned my head I spotted five mugs—all with suspicious soft brown stains under them.

Coffee.

That would explain it.

“But why?” I half-turned to look at him, only to see the goofy grin was still in place.

“You told me no coffee at midnight,” and with that, he shrugged. The books having enough of his abuse then, jostled by the abrupt movement, tipped over his head and landed on his toe. Cursing colorfully, Jo hopped away from the fallen books, giving a little whine when I did not go and assist him with his woes.

“I’ll watch you pee,” he whined, clutching at his foot and nearly falling over his head as a result.

“OK,” and before he could do some other stupidity, I turned away from him and walked into the bathroom.

There was an awkward pause as Markus gazed into the endless abyss that had previously been their bedroom.

“J-Jo...?”

Sheets of all colors clung from the fans, bookshelves, desk, and even the door frame and windows. The room was dark except for a faint light from within the cocoon of sheets. A sheet castle. Jo had built an elaborate sheet castle.

What was more impressive was that Markus had been gone for maybe fifteen minutes at most. He simply crossed the street to order both of them some sandwiches to eat—a change from the usual pizza, so they would not have to prepare anything.

“Jo?” Markus called louder this time, taking a careful step towards the fort of the castle, complete with a moat of pillows and a few sex toys that made Markus pause.

“Come inside!” Jo called from somewhere within, the light within the sheets flickering.

Paper bag of sandwiches in tow, Markus ducked a wayward sheet, stepping over the makeshift moat, and struggling to find a way deeper within whilst avoiding tripping and taking the whole fort down with him.

He had to take a few steps back and twist this way and that, but he finally brushed against the edge of the bed. Gratefully, he climbed onto it, giving a sigh of relief once he spotted Jo within.

Jo was surrounded by four candles, hands resting on his crossed legs. Once he spotted Markus, he grinned—the light of the flames casting a menacing shadow over his features.

Directly in front of him rested a Ouija board.

“So glad you could join us today,” Jo hummed.


End file.
